^J<^7f^ 


LIBRARY   OF   THIC 


University  of  California. 


CIKC  UL  A  TI  jV  G     B  A'  A  ,V  C II 


WBO  W( 


Return  in  wio  wee^ !  or  a  week  befoie  the  end  of  the  tefn/. 


THE 


POETICAL  WOEKS 


OF 


OWEN   MEREDITH 

(ROBERT,  LORD  LYTTON). 


"LUGILE,"  "THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE,"  "THE  WANDERER,"  " CLYTEMNESTEA," 

ETC..  ETC. 


HOUSEHOLD    EDITION. 


( 


NEW   YORK: 
JOHN     B.     ALDEN,     PUBLISHER, 


i  3  </7 


^ 


CONTENTS 


LUCILE 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE |  C2 

THE  WANDERER. 

Dedication.    To  J.  F : 172 

Prologue.    Pan    1 174 

*'     II 179 

"  III 181 

Book  I.    In  Italy. 

The  Magic  Land 185 

Desire 186 

Fatality *.  .\. .  187 

A  Vision .■  . . .  188 

Eros 189 

Indian  Love-Song 190 

Morning  and  Meeting ISO 

The  Cloud 191 

Root  and  Leaf 192 

Warnings 192 

A  Fancy 193 

Once 194 

Since  195 

A  Love-Letter 197 

Condemned  Ones 200 

The  Storm 201 

The  Vampire 203 

Change 204 

A  Chain  to  wear 205 

Silence 206 

News , 207 

Count  Rinaldo  Rinakli 207 

The  Last  Message. . 209 

Venice , 209 

OntheSea 210 

Book  II.    In  France. 

"  Prensus  in  JEgxo  " 212 

A  I'Entresol 213 

Terra  Incognita 214 

A  Rem  jmbrance 515 

Madame  la  Marquise 216 

The  Novel 217 

Aux  Italiens 218 

Progress 220 

The  Portrait 221 

Astarte  222 

At  Home  during  the  Ball 224 

At  Home  after  the  Ball 225 

Au  Cafe  *  *  * 226  ' 


PAGE. 

The  Chess-Board 231 

Song 232 

The  Last  Remonstrance 23-' 

Sorcery.    To  i'34 

Adieu,  Miguomie,  ma  Belle 234 

To  Mignonne 235 

Compensation 236 

Translations    from    Peter   Ron- 
sard  ; 
"  Voici  le  Bois  que  Ma  Saincte 

Angelette" 237 

"Cache  pour  cette  Nuiet  " 237 

*'  Page  suy  :\Ioy  " 237 

"  Lei  Espices  sont  a  Ceres  "... .  238 
"  Ma  Douce  Jouveuce  " 238 

Book  III.    In  England. 

The  Aloe 238 

"  jMedio  de  Fonte  Leporum" 240 

The  Death  of  King  Hacou 240 

"  Carpe  Diem  " 241 

The  Fount  of  Truth 242 

Midges , 243 

The  Last  Time  that  I  met  Ladv 

Ruth ■.  245 

Matrimonial  Counsels 246 

See-Saw 247 

Babylonia 248 


Book  IV.    In  Switzerland 
The  Heart  and  Nature. . 

A  Quiet  Moment 

Na^nise 


251 
252 
253 


Book  V.    In  Holland. 

Autumn 2.55 

Leafless  Hours 255 

On  my  Twenty-fourth  Year  255 

Jacqueline 2."6 

Macromicros  259 

jNIysterv 260 

The  Canticle  of  Love 265 

The  Pedler 265 

A  Ghost  Story 267 

Small  People  ,.  267 

Metempsychosis 267 

To  the  Queen  of  Serpents 268 

Bluebeard A 267 

Fatima 269 

Going  back  again 2f^9 

The  Castle  of  King  Macbeth, ....  269 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Deatb-iii-Lif e 270 

King  Limos 270 

Tiie  Fugitive 271 

The  Shore 271 

The  North  Sea 272 

A  Night  ill  the  Fisherman's  Hut: 
Part     1.    The  Fisherman's 

Daughter 273 

"      11.    The  Legend  of  Lord 

Koseiicrantz 275 

"    in.    Daybreak 277 

«'     VL    Breakfast 278 

A  Dream 279 

King  Solomon 279 

Cordelia 281 

"Ye  seek  Jesus  of  Nazareth 

which  was  crucified  " 282 

To  Cordelia 283 

A  Letter  to  Cordelia 285 

Failure 286 

Misanthropes 287 


Book  VI.    Palingenesis. 

A  Prayer 288 

Euthanasia 289 

The  Soul's  Science 294 

A  Psalm  of  Confession 294 

Kequiescat 299 

Epilogue.    Part      L 299 

"       II.... 302 

"     III 306 


TANNHAUSER. 

Tannhauser ;    or,  the  Battle    of 
the  Bards 312 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Clytemnestra 348 


Good-night  in  the  Porch 397 

The  Earl's  Return 403 

A  Soul's  Loss 418 

The  Artist 40I 

The  Wife's  Tragedy lil 


PAGE, 

MINOR  POEMS. 

The  Parting  of    Launcelot    and 

Guenevere 434 

A  Sunset  Fancy 440 

Ahsociations 440 

Meeting  again 441 

Aristocracy 44> 

The  Mermaiden 44;^ 

At  her  Casement . .     ■y^% 

A  Farewell 443 

An  Evening  in  Tuscany 443 

Song 445 

Seaside  Songs,    i 445 

11!..*..'.'...*..'.*.'...'  446 

The  Summer-time  that  was 440 

Elayne  le  Blanc 447 

To  452 

Queen  Guenevere 452 

The  Neglected  Heart 453 

Appearances 453 

How  the  Song  was  made 454 

Retrospections 454 

The  Voice  across  my  Spirit  falls.  454 

The  Ruined  Palace 455 

A  Vision  of  Mrgius 455 

Leoline 457 

Spring  and  Winter 458 

King  Hermandiaz 459 

Song 459 

The  Swallow 4C0 

Contraband 4(10 

Evening 461 

Adon 461 

The  Prophet 461 

Wealth 462 

Want 462 

A  Bird  at  Sunset 462 

In  Travel 463 

Changes 463 

Judicium  Paridis 464 

Night 468 

Sonj: 468 

Forbearance 469 

Helios  Hyperionides 4(!9 

Elisabetta  Sirani 469 

Last  Words 473 


LUCIL  E. 


JBetrication, 

TO    MY    FATHER. 

I  DEBTCATK  to  vou  a  work,  which  is  submitted  to  the  public  with  a  diffidence  and 
tiesitatiou  proportioned  to  the;  novelty  of  the  eftort  it  represents.  For  in  tliis  poem  I 
have  abandoned  those  forms  of  verse  with  which  I  had  most  familiarized  my  tlioiigbts, 
a)id  have  endeavored  lo  follow  a  path  on  which  I  could  discover  no  footprints  before 
tne.  eitlier  to  snide  or  to  warn. 

There  is  a  inoraent  of  profound  discouragement  which  succeeds  to  prolonged  effort ; 
when,  the  labor  which  has  become  a  habit  having  ceased,  we  miss  the  sustaining  sense 
of  its  championship,  and  stai>d,  with  a  feeling  of  sti-angeness  and  embarrassment,  be- 
fore the  abrupt  and  naked  result.  As  regards  myself,  in  the  present  instance,  the  force 
of  all  such  sensations  is  increased  by  the  circumstances  to  which  1  have  referred.  And 
in  this  mohient  of  discouragement  and  doubt  my  heart  instinctively  turns  to  you,  from 
whom  it  has  so  often  sought,  from  whom  it  has  iiever  failed  to  receive,  support. 

I  do  not  inscribe  to  you  this  book  because  it  contains  aiiything  that  is  worthy  of  the 
beloved  and  lionored  name  with  wbit-h  I  thus  seek  to  associate  it :  nor  yet,  because  I 
would  avail  myself  of  a  vulgar  pretext  to  display  in  public  an  alfection  that  is  best 
honored  by  tlie'silence  which  it  renders  sacred. 

Feelings  only  such  as  those  with  which,  in  daj'S  when  there  existed  for  me  710  critic 
less  gentle  than  yourself,  I  brought  to  you  my' childish  manuscripts. — feelings  only 
such  as  those  which  have,  in  later  years,  associated  witli  your  heart  all  that  has  moved 
or  occupied  my  own,— lead  me  once  more  to  seek  assurance  from  the  grasp  of  that  hand 
which  has  hitherto  been  my  guide  and  comfort  through  the  life  I  owe  to  you. 

And  as  in  childhood,  when  existence  had  no  toil  beyond  the  day's  simple  lesson,  no 
ambition  beyond  the  neighboring  approval  of  the  night.  I  brought  "to  you  the  morning's 
task  for  the  evening's  sanction,  so  now  I  bring  to  you  this  self-appointed  task-work  of 
maturer  years;  less  confident  indeed  of  your  approval,  but  not  less  confident  of 
your  love";  and  anxious  only  to  realize  your  presence  between  myself  and  the  public, 
and  to  mingle  with  those  severer  voices  to  whose  final  sentence  1  submit  my  work  the 
id:        ' 


beloved  and  gracious  accents  of  your  own. 


OWEN  MEREDITH. 


PART    I. 


CANTO  I. 


Letter  from  the  Comtesse  de  Nev- 
ERS  lo  Lord  Alfred  Vargrave. 
*'  I  HEAR  from  Bigorre  you  are  there. 

I  am  told 
You  are  going  to  marry  Miss  Darcy. 

Of  old,  [it  now, 

So  long  since  you  may  have  forgotten 
(When  we  parted  as  friends,   soon 

ciere  strangers  to  grow,  J 


Your  last  wordi;  recorded  a  pledge — 
what  you  will — 

A  promise — the  time  is  now  come  to 
fulfil. 

The  letters  I  ask  you,  my  lord,  to  re- 
turn, 

I  desire  to  receive  from  your  hand. 
You  discern 

My  reasons,  which,  therefore,  I  need 
not  explain. 

The  distance  to  Serchon  is  short.  I 
remain 


8 


LUCILE. 


A  month  in  these  mountains.     Miss 

Darcy,  perchance, 
Will  forego  one  brief  page  from  the 

summer  romance 
Of  her  courtship,  and  spare  you  one 

day  from  your  place 
At  her  feet,  in  the  light  of  her  fair 

English  face. 
I  desire  nothing  more,  and  I  trust 

you  will  feel 
I  desire  nothing  much. 

"  Your  friend  always, 

'•  LUCILE." 


II. 


Now  in  May  Fair,  of  course, — in  the 
fair  month  of  May, — 

When  life  is  abundant,  and  busy, 
and  gay  : 

Wlien  the  markets  of  London  are 
noisy  about 

Young  ladies,  and  strawberries,  — 
"  only  just  out  :  " 

Fresh  strav/berries  sold  under  all  the 
house-eaves, 

And  young  ladies  on  sale  for  the 
strawberry  leaves  : 

When  cards,  invitations,  and  three- 
cornered  notes 

Fly  about  like  white  butterflies, — 
gay  little  motes 

In  the  sunbeam  of  Fashion  ;  and 
even  Blue  Books 

Take  a  heavy-winged  flight,  and  grow 
busy  as  rooks  ; 

And  the  postman  (that  Genius,  in- 
different and  stern. 

Who  shakes  out  even-handed  to  all, 
from  his  urn. 

Those  lots  which  so  often  decide  if 
our  day 

Shall  be  fretful  and  anxious,  or  joy- 
ous and  gay), 

Brings,  each  morning,  more  letters 
of  one  sort  or  other 

Than  Cadmus  himself  put  together, 
to  bother 

The  heads  of  Hellenes  ; — I  say,  in 
the  season 

Of  Fair  May,  in  May  Fair,  there  can 
be  no  reason 


Why,  when  quietly  munching  your 
dry-toast  and  butter. 

Your  nerves    should    be    suddenly 
thrown  in  a  flutter 

At  the  sight  of  a  neat  little  letter, 
addressed 

In  a  woman's  handwriting,  coiUain- 
ing,  half  guessed, 

An  odor    of   violets    faint    as    the 
Spring, 

And  coquettishly  sealed  with  a  small 
signet-ring. 

But  in  Autumn,  the  season  of  som- 
bre reflection, 

When  a  damp  day,  at  breakfast,  be- 
gins with  dejection  ; 

Far  from  London  and  Paris,  and  ill 
at  one's  ease. 

Away  in  the  heart  of  the  blue  Pyre- 
nees, 

Where  a  call  from  the  doctot,  a  stroll 
to  the  bath, 

A  ride  through  the  hills  on  a  hri'.  1^ 
like  a  latli, 

A  cigar,  a  French  novel,  a  tedious 
flirtation, 

Are  all  a  man  finds  for  his  day's  oc- 
cupation, 

Tlie  whole  case,  believe  me,  is  total- 
ly changed. 

And  a  letter  may  alter  the  plans  we 
arranged 

Over-night,   for    the    slaughter    of 
Time, — a  wild  beast, 

A^^ich,  though  classified  yet  by  no 
naturalist. 

Abounds  in  these  mountains,  more 
hard  to  ensnare, 

And  more  miscliievous,  too,  than  the 
lynx  or  the  bear. 
III. 

I  marvel  less,  therefore,  that,  having 
already 

Torn  open  this  note,  with  a  hand 
most  unsteady, 

Lord  Alfred  was  startled. 

The  month  is  September  ; 

Time,  morning  ;    the    scene   at  Bi^ 
gorre  ;  (pray  remember 

These  facts,  gentle  reader,  because  I 
intend 


LUCILE. 


To  fliTi-^  all  the  unities  by  at  the  end. ) 
He   v.alked  to  the    wiudow.      The 

morning  was  chill  : 
The  brown  woods  were  crisped  in  the 

cold  on  the  hill  : 
The  sole  thing  abroad  in  the  streets 

was  the  wind  ; 
A  nd  the  straws  on  the  ^ust,  like  the 

thouglits  in  his  mind, 
Rose,  and  eddied  around  and  around, 

as  tliough  teasing 
Each  other.     The  prospect,  in  truth, 

was  unpleasing  : 
And  Lord  Alfred,   whilst   moodily 

gazing  around  it. 
To  himself  more  than  once  ^  vexed  in 

soul)  sighed 
.   .   .   "Confound  it !" 


What  the  thoughts  were  which  led 

to  this  bad  interjection, 
Sir,  or  Madam,  I  leave  to  your  future 

detection  ; 
For  whatever  they  were,  they  were 

burst  in  upon. 
As  the  door  was  burst  through,  by 

my  lord's  Cousin  John. 

Cousin  John. 
A  fool,  Alfred,  a  fool,  a  most  motley 
fool! 

Lord  Alfred. 
Who? 

John. 
The  man  who  has  anything  better  to 

do  ; 
And  yet  so  far  forgets  himself,  so  far 

degrades 
His  position  as  Man,  to  this  worst  of 

all  trades, 
Which  even  a  well-brought-up  ape 

were  above. 
To  travel  about  with  a  woman  in 

love, — 
Unless  she's  in  love  with  himself. 

Alfred. 

Indeed  !  why 
Are  you  there  then,  dear  Jack  ? 


John. 
Can't  you  guess  it  ? 

Alfred. 

Not  I. 
John. 

Because  I  liax)e  nothing  that's  bettei 

to  do. 
I  had  rather  be  bored,  my  dear  Al- 

fred,  by  you, 
On  the  whole  (I  must  own),  than  be 

bored  by  myself. 
That  perverse,  imperturbable,golden^ 

haired  elf — 
Your  Will-o'-the-wisp — that  has  led 

you  and  me 
Such  a  dance  through  these  hills — 

Alfred. 

Who,  Matilda  ? 

John. 

Yes  !  she, 
Of  course  !  who  but  she  could  con- 
trive so  to  keep 
One^s  eyes,  and  one's  feet  too,  from 

falling  asleep 
For  even  one  half-hour  of  the  long 
twenty-four  ? 

Alfred. 
What's  the  matter  ? 

John. 
Why,  she  is — a  matter,  the  more 

I  consider  about  it,  the  more  it  de- 
mands 

An  attention   it  does  not  deserve  ; 
and  expands 

Beyond  the  dimensions  which  even 
crinoline, 

When  possessed  by  a  fair  face  and 
saucy  Eighteen, 

Is  entitled  to  take  in  this  very  small 
slar, 

Already  too  crowded,  as  1  think,  by 
far. 

You  read  Malthus  and  Sadler  ? 

Alfred. 

Of  course. 


10 


LUCILE. 


John. 

To  what  use, 

When  you  countenance,  calmly,  such 
monstrous  abuse 

Of  one  mere  human  creature's  legit- 
imate space 

In  this  world  ?  Mars,  Apollo,  "O- 
rum  !  the  case 

AMiolly  passes  my  patience. 

Alfred. 

My  own  is  worse  tried. 

John. 
Yours,  Alfred  ? 

Alfred. 
Read  this,  if  you  doubt,  and  decide. 

John  (reading  the  letter). 
"  I  hear  from  Biyo^ve  you  are  there. 

I  am  told 
You  are  qoinq  tomarry  Miss  Bar cy. 

or  old--" 
What  is  this  ? 

Alfred. 
Read  it  on  to  the  end,  and  you'll 
know. 

John  (continues  reading). 
"  When  we  partefl,  your  last  words 

recorded  a  vow — 
What  you  vill  "   .   .   . 
Hang  it  !  this  smells  all  over,  I 

swear, 
Of  adventures  and  violets.     Was  it 

your  hair 
Yoa  promised  a  lock  of  ? 

Alfred. 
Read  on.     You'll  discern. 
John  (continues). 
*'  Those  letters  I  ask  you,  my  lord, 

to  return.'*  .  .  . 
Humph !   .    .   .   Letters  I  .   .   .   the 
matter  is  worse  than  I  guessed ; 
I  have  my  misgivings  — 

Alfred. 

Well,  read  out  the  rest, 
And  advise, 


John. 
Eh  ?  .  .  .  Where  was  I  ?  ,  .  . 
(Continues.) 
"  Miss  Darcy,  per  chalice, 
Will  forego  one  brief  page  from  the 

summer  romance 
Of  her  courtship."  .  .  . 

Egad!  a  romance,  for  my  \y:\r, 
I'd  forego  every  page  of,  and  ui.t 
break  my  heart ! 

Alfred. 
Continue ! 

John  (reading). 
"  And  spare  you  one  day  from  your 

place 
At  her  feet."  .  .  . 
Pray  forgive  me  the  passing  grim- 
ace. 
I  wish  you  had  my  place! 
(Reads.) 

"  I  trust  you  will  feel 
I    desire     nothing     much.       Your 
friend"  .  .  . 

Bless  me!  "Lucille"? 
The  Comtesse  de  Nevers  ? 

Alfred. 
Yes. 
John. 

What  will  you  do  ? 
Alfred. 
You  ask  me  just  what  I  wouid  rather 
ask  you. 

John. 
You  can't  go. 

Alfred. 
I  must. 

John. 

And  Matilda  ? 

Alfred. 

O,  that 
You  must  manage! 
John. 
Must  I  ?    I  decline  it,  though,  fiat. 
In  an  hour  the  horses  will  be  at  the 
door, 


LUCILE. 


H 


I' 


\w'A  jSratilla  is  now  in  her  habit. 

J'ofore 
1  have    finished    my    breakfast,  of 

course  I  receive 
A  message  for  "  dear  Cousin  John  !  " 

...  I  must  leave 
At  tlie  jeweller's  the  bracelet  which 

you  broke  last  night; 
I  must  call  for  the  music.     "Dear 

Alfred  is  right: 
The  black  shawl  looks  best :  will  I 

change  it  ?    Of  course 
1  can  just  stop,  in  passing,  to  order 

the  horse. 
Then  Beau  has  the  mumps,  or  St. 

Hubert  knows  what; 
Will  I  see  the  dog-doctor?"    Hang 

Beau!    I  will  not. 

Alfred. 
Tush,  tush!  this  is  serious. 

John. 

It  is. 

Alfred. 

Very  well, 
You  must  think  — 

John. 
What  excuse  will  you  make,  though  ? 

Alfred. 

O,  tell 
Mrs.  Darcy  that  .  .  .  lend  me  your 

wits.  Jack!  .  .  .  the  deuce! 
Can  you  not  stretch  your  genius  to  fit 

a  friend's  use  ? 
Excuses    are   clothes  which,   when 

asked  unawares, 
Good  Breeding  to  naked  Necessity 

spares. 
You  must  have  a  whole  wardrobe, 

no  doubt. 


JOHX. 

My  dear  fellow ! 
Matilda  is   jealous,   you    know,    as 
Othello. 


Alfred. 


Tou  joke. 


John. 
I  am  serious.    Wliy  go  to  Serchon  ? 
Alfred. 
Don't  ask  me.     I  have  not  a  choice, 

my  dear  John, 
Besides,  shall  I  own  a  strange  sort  of 

desire. 
Before  I  extinguish  forever  the  fire 
Of  youth   and    romance,   in  whose 

shadowy  light 
Hope  whispered  her  first  fairy  tales, 

to  excite 
The  last  spark,  till  it  rise,  and  fade 

far  in  that  dawn 
Of  my  days  where  the  twilights  of 

life  vrere  first  drawn 
By  the  rosy,   reluctant  auroras  of 

Love : 
In  short,  from  the  dead  Past  the 

gravestone  to  move; 
Of  theyears  long  departed  forever  to 

take 
One  last  look,  one  final  farewell,  to 

awake 
The  Heroic  of  youth  from  the  Hades 

of  joy, 
And  once  more  be,  though  but  for 

an  hour,  Jack — a  boy! 

John. 
You  had  better  go  hang  yourself. 
Alfred. 

No !  were  it  but 
To  make  sure  that  the  Past  from  the 

Future  is  shut. 
It  were  worth  the  step  back.     Do 

you  think  we  should  live 
With  the  living  so  lightly,  and  learn 

to  survive 
That  wild  moment  in  which  to  the 

grave  and  its  gloom 
We  consigned  our  heart's  best,  if  the 

doors  of  the  tomb 
W^ere  not  locked  with  a  key  which 

Fate  keeps  for  our  sake  ? 
If  the  dead   could    return,   or  the 

corpses  awake  ? 

John, 
Nonsense ! 


LUCILE. 


Alfred. 


Not  wholly.  The  man  who  gets  up 

A  filled  guest  from  the  banquet,  and 
drains  off  his  cup, 

Sees  the  last  lamp  extinguished  with 
cheerfulness,  goes 

Well  contented  to  bed,  and  enjoys 
its  repose. 

But  he  who  hath  supped  at  the 
tables  of  kings. 

And  yet  starved  in  the  sight  of  lux- 
urious things  ; 

Who  hath  watched  the  wine  flow, 
by  himself  but  half  tasted, 

Heard  the  music,  and  yet  missed  the 
tune  ;  who  hath  wasted 

One  part  of  life's  grand  possibili- 
ties ; — friend, 

That  man  will  bear  with  him,  be 
sure,  to  the  end, 

A  blighted  experience,  a  rancor 
within  . 

You  may  call  it  a  virtue,  I  call  it  a 
sin. 

John. 

I  see  you  remember  the  cynjcal  story 
Of  that  wicked  old  piece  of  Experi- 

rience — a  hoary 
Lothario,  whom  dying,  the  priest  by 

his  bed 
(Knowing  well  the  unprincipled  life 

he  had  led. 
And  observing,  with  no  small  amount 

ot  surprise, 
Resignation  and  calm  in  the  old  sin- 
ner's eyes) 
Asked  if  he  had  nothing  that  weighed 

on  his  mind  : 
"Well,  .  .  .  no,"  says  Lothario,  "  I 

think  not.     I  find 
On  reviewing  my  life,  which  in  most 

things  was  pleasant, 
I  never  neglected,  when  once  it  was 

present. 
An  occasion  of  pleasing  myself.    On 

the  whole, 
I  have  naught  to  regret";  .  .  .  and 

so,  smiling,  his  soul 
Took  its  flight  from  this  world. 


Alfred. 
Well,  Regret  or  Remorse, 
Which  is  best  ? 


John. 

Why,  Regret. 

Alfred. 

No  ;  Remorse,  Jack,  of  course  ; 

For  the  one  is  related,  to  be  sure,  to 
the  other. 

Regret  is  a  spiteful  old  maid  ;  but 
her  brother, 

liemorse,  though  a  widower  cer- 
tainly, yet 

//as  been  wed  to  young  Pleasure. 
Dear  Jack,  hang  Regret! 

John. 
Bref  .'you  mean,  then,  to  go  ? 

Alfred. 

Bref  I  I  do. 
John. 

One  word  .  .  .  stay ! 
Are  you  really  in  love  with  Matilda  ? 

Alfred. 

Love,  eh  ? 
What  a  question  !    Of  course. 

John. 
Were  you  really  in  love 
With  Madame  de  Nevers  ? 

Alfred. 
Wliat  ;  Lucile  ?    No,  by  Jove, 
Never  really. 

John. 
She's  pretty  ? 

Alfred. 

Decidedly  so. 
At  least,  so  she  was,  some  ten  sum* 

mers  ago. 
As  soft  and  as  sallow  as  Autumn,— 

with  hair 
Neither  black,  nor  yet  brown,  bu' 
that  tinge  which  the  air 


LUCILE. 


13 


Takes   at  eve   in   September,  when 

night  lingers  lone 
Through    a    vineyard,  from   beams 

of  a  slow-setting  sun. 
Eyes — the  wistful  gazelle's  ;  the  fine 

foot  of  a  fairy  ; 
And  a  hand  lit  a  fay's  wand  to  wave, 

— white  and  airy  ; 
A.  voice  soft  and  sweet  as  a  tune  that 

one  knows. 
Something  in  her  there  was,  set  you 

thinking  of  those 
Strange  backgrounds  of  Kaphael  .  .  . 

that  hectic  and  deep 
Brief  twilight  in    which    southern 

suns  fall  asleep. 

John. 

Coquette  ? 

Alfred. 

Not  at  all.     'Twas  her  own   fault. 
Not  she  ! 

I  had  loved  her  the  better,  had  she 
less  loved  me. 

The  heart  of  a  man's  like  that  deli- 
cate weed 

Which  requires  to  be  trampled  on, 
boldly  indeed, 

Ere  it  gives  forth  the  fragrance  you 
wish  to  extract. 

'Tis  a  simile,  trust  me,  if  not  new, 
exact. 

John. 
Women  change  so. 

Alfred. 

Of  course. 
John. 
And,  unless  rumor  errs, 
I  believe  that,  last  year,  the  Comtesse 
de  Nevers  * 

*  O  Shakespeare  !  bow  couldst  thou  ask 
"  What's  in  a  name  ?  " 

'Tis  the  devil's  iu  it  when  a  bard  has  to 
frame 

English  rhymeJi  for  alliance  with  names 
that  are  French  ; 

A.nd  in  these  rhymes  of  mine,  well  I  know 
that  1  trench 

All  too  far  on  that  license  which  critics  re- 
fuse, 


Was  at   Baden   the   rage, — held   an 

absolute  court 
Of  devoted  adorers,  and  really  made 

sport 
Of  her  subjects. 

Alfred. 
Indeed  ! 

John. 
Wlien  she  broke  off  with  you 
Her  engagement,  her  heart  did  not 
break  with  it  ? 

Alfked. 
Pooh  ! 
Pray  would  you  have  had  her  dress 

always  in  black, 
And  shut  herself  up  in  a  convent, 

dear  Jack  ? 
Besides,  'twas  my  fault  the  engage- 
ment was  broken. 


Most  likely. 


John. 
How  was  it  ? 


Alfred. 

The  tale  is  soon  spoken. 
She  bored  me.     I  showed  it.     She 

saw  it.     What  next  ? 
She  reproached.      I   retorted.       Of 

course  she  was  vexed. 
I  was  vexed  that  she  was  so.     She 

sulked.     So  did  I. 
If  I  asked  her  to  sing,  she  looked 

ready  to  cry. 
I  w^as    contrite,    submissive.      She 

softened.     I  hardened. 
At  noon  I  was  Danished.     At  eve  I 

was  pardoned. 


With  just  right,  to  accord  to  a  well-brought- 
up  Muse. 

Vet,  though  faulty  the  union,  in  many  a 
line, 

'Twixt  my  British-born  verse  and  my 
French  heroine. 

Since,  however  auspiciouslj  wedded  they 
be, 

There  is  many  a  pair  that  yet  cannot 
agree. 

Your  forgiveness  for  this  pair  the  author 
invites, 

Whom  necessity,  not  inclination,  unites. 


u 


LUCILE. 


She  said  I  had  no  heart.     I  said  she 

had  no  reason. 
I  swore  she  talked   nonsense.     She 

sobbed  I  talked  treason. 
In  short,  my  dear  fellow,  'twas  time, 

as  yon  see. 
Things  should  come  to  a  crisis,  and 

finish.     'Twas  she 
By  whom  to  that  crisis  the  matter 

was  brought. 
She    released   rne.      I  lingered.      I 

lingered,  she  thought, 
With  too  sullen   an   aspect.      This 

gave  me,  of  course, 
The  occasion  lo  fly  in  a  rage,  mount 

my  horse, 
And  declare  myself  uncomprehend- 

ed.     And  so 
We  parted.    The  rest  of  the  story 

you  know. 


John. 


No,  indeed. 


Alfred. 
Well,  we  parted.  Of  course  we  could 

not 
Continue  to  meet,  as  before,  in  one 

spot. 
You    conceive     it    was    awkward  ? 

Even  Don  Ferdlnando 
Can  do,  you  remember,  no  more  than 

he  can  do. 
I  think    that  I   acted    exceedingly 

well, 
Considering  the  time  when  this  rup- 
ture befell, 
For  Paris  was  charming  just  then. 

It  deranged 
All  my  plans  for  the  winter.  I  asked 

to  be  clianged, — 
Wrote  for  Naples,  then  vacant, — ob- 
tained it, — and  so 
Joined  my  new  post  at  once  ;  but 

scarce  reached  it,  when  lo  ! 
My  first  news  from  Paris  informs  me 

Lucile 
Is  ill,  and  in  danger.  Conceive  what 

I  feel. 
I  fly  back.     I  find  her  recovered,  but 

yet 


Looking  pale.     I  am  seized  with  a 

contrite  regret; 
I  ask  to  renew  tlie  engagement. 

John. 

And  she  ? 

Al-FRED. 

Reflects,  but  declines.  A¥e  part, 
swearing  to  be 

Friends  ever,  friends  only.  All  that 
sort  of  thing  ! 

We  each  keep  our  letters  ...  a  por- 
trait ...  a  ring  .  .  . 

With  a  pledge  to  return  them  when- 
ever the  one 

Or  the  other  shall  call  for  them  back. 

Joiix. 

Pray  go  on. 
Alfred. 
My  story  is  finished.     Of  course  I  en- 
join 
On  Lucile  all  those  thousand  good 

maxims  we  coin 
To  supply  the  grim  deficit  found  in 

our  days, 
When  Love  leaves  them  bankrupt.  I 

preach.     She  obeys. 
She  goes  out  in  the  world  ;  takes  lo 

dancing  once  more, — 
A   pleasure  she  rarely  indulged   in 

before. 
I  go  back  to  my  post,  and  collect  (I 

must  o^vn 
'Tis  a  taste  I  had  never  befoi-e,  my 

dear  John) 
Antiques  and  small  Elzevirs.  Heigh- 
ho  !  now.  Jack, 
You  know  all. 

JoHX  [after  a  pause). 
You  are  really  resolved  to  go  back ': 

Alfred. 
Eh,  where  ? 

John. 
To  that  worst  of  all  places, — the 
past. 
You  remember  Lot's  wife  ? 


LVC/LE 


^S 


Alfred. 
'Twas  a  promise  when  last 
We  parted.  My  honor  is  pledged  to  it. 

John. 

Well, 
Wliat  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do  ? 

Alfred. 

You  must  tell 
?>Iatilda,  I  meant  to  have  called— to 

leave  word — 
To    explain — 'out  the    time  was   so  I 
pressing — 

John. 

My  lord, 
Tour  lordship's  obedient  !    I  really 
can't  do.  .  . 

Alfred. 
Fou  wish  then  to  break  off  my  mar- 
riage ? 

John. 

No,  no  ! 
But  indeed  I  can't  see  why  yourself 

you  need  take 
These  letters. 

Alfred. 
Not  see  ?  woiild  you  have  me,  then, 

break 
A  promise  my  honor  is  pledged  to  ? 

John  [humming). 

"  Of.  off, 
And  away !  said  the  stranger''.  .  . 

Alfred. 

O,  good  !  O,  you  scoff  ! 
John. 
At  what,  my  dear  Alfred  ? 

Alfred. 
At  all  things ! 

John. 

Indeed  ? 
Alfred. 
Yes;  I  see  that  your  heart  is  as  dry 
as  a  reed  : 


That  the  dew  of  your  youth  is  rubbed 

otf  vou  :  1  see 
You  have  no  feeling  left  in  you,  even 

for  me  ! 
At  honor  you  jest  ;  you  are  cold  as 

a  stone 
To  the   warm  voice  of    friendship. 

Belief  you  have  none; 
You  have   lost  faith   in   all  things. 

You  carry  a  blight 
About  with  you  everywhere.     Yes, 

at  the  sight 
Of    such  callous  indifference,  who 

could  be  calm  ? 
I  must  leave  you  at  once,  Jack,  or 

else  the  last  balm 
That  is  left  me  iuGilead  you'll  turn 

iiuo  gall. 
Heartless,  cold,  unconcerned.  .  . 

John. 

Have  you  done  ?    Is  that  all  ? 
Well,  then,  listen  to  me  !  I  presume 

when  you  made 
Up  your  mind   to  propose  to  Miss 

Darcy,  you  weighed 
All    the     drawbacks     against     the 

equivalent  gains, 
Ere  you  finally    settled  the    point. 

What  remains 
But  to  stick  to  your  choice  ?    You 

want  money  :  'tis  here. 
A  settled  position;  'tis  yours.    A  ca- 
reer : 
You  secure  it.     A  wife,  young,  and 

pretty  as  rich, 
Whom  all  men  will  envy  you.    Why 

must  you  itch 
To  be  running  away,  on  the  eve  of 

ail  this. 
To  a  woman  whom  n-ver  for  once 

did  you  miss 
All  these  years  si-  ce  :-ou  left  her? 

Who  knows  what  may  hap  ? 
This   letter— to    y/i'^— is  a   palpable 

trap. 
The  woman  has  changed  since  you 

knew  her.     P-rchance 
She  yet  seeks  to  reuj     he- youth's 

broken  romance. 
When  women  begin  to  feel  youth 

and  their  beauty 


i6 


LUCILE. 


Slip  from  them,  they  count  it  a  sort 
of  a  duty 

To  let  nothing  else  slip  away  unse- 
cured 

Which  these,  while  they  lasted, 
might  once  have  procured. 

Lucile's  coquette  to  the  end  of  her 
fingers, 

I  will  stake  my  last  farthing.  Per- 
haps the  wish  lingers 

To  recall  the  once  reckless,  indiffer- 
ent lover 

To  the  feet  he  has  left  ;  let  intrigue 
now  recover 

What  truth  could  not  keep.  'Twere 
a  vengeance,  no  doubt — 

A  triumph  ;— but  why  must  you 
bring  it  about  ? 

You  are  risking  the  substance  of  all 
that  you  schemed 

To  obtain  ;  and  for  what  ?  Some 
mad  dream  you  have  dreamed  ! 

Alfred. 
But  there's  nothing  to  risk.    You 

exaggerate.  Jack. 
You  mistake.     In  three  days,  at  the 

most,  J  am  back. 

John. 

Ay,  but  how  ?  .  .  .  discontented,  un- 
settled, upset, 

Bearing  with  you  a  comfortless 
twinge  of  regret  ; 

Preoccupied,  sulky,  and  likely 
enough 

To  make  your  betrothed  break  off 
all  in  a  huff. 

Three  days,  do  you  say  ?  But  in 
three  days  who  knows 

What  may  happen  ?  I  don't,  nor 
do  you,  I  suppose. 

V. 

Of  all  the  good  things  in  this  good 

world  around  us, 
The  one  most  abundantly  furnished 

and  found  us. 
And  which,   for    that    reason,    we 

least  care  about, 
And  can  best  spare  our  friends,  is 

good  counsel,  no  doubt. 


But  advice,  when  'tis  sought  from  a 
friend  (though  civility 

May  forbid  to  avow  it),  means  mere 
liability 

In  the  bill  we  already  have  drawn 
on  Remorse, 

Which  we  deem  that  a  true  friend  is 
bound  to  indorse. 

A  mere  lecture  on  debt  from  that 
friend  is  a  bore. 

Thus,  the  better  his  cousin's  advice 
was,  the  more 

Alfred  Vargrave  with  angry  resent- 
ment opposed  it. 

And,  having  the  worst  of  the  con- 
test, he  closed  it 

With  so  firm  a  resolve  his  bad  ground 
to  maintain. 

That,  sadly  perceiving  resistance  was 
vain. 

And  argument  fruitless,  the  amiable 
Jack 

Came  to  terms,  and  assisted  his 
cousin  to  pack 

A  slender  valise  (the  one  small  con- 
descension 

Which  his  final  remonstrance  ob- 
tained), whose  dimension 

Excluded  large  outfits  ;  and,  cursing 
}iis  stars,  he 

Shook  hands  with  his  friend  and  re- 
turned to  Miss  Darcy. 

VI. 

Lord  Alfred,  when  last  to  the  v/in- 

dow  he  turned, 
Ere  he  locked  up  and  quitted  his 

chamber,  discerned 
Matilda  ride  by,    with    her  cheek 

beaming  bright 
In  what  Yirgil  has  called  *'  Youth's 

purpureal  light " 
(I  like  the  expression,  and  can't  find 

a  better). 
He  sighed  as  he  looked  at  her.    Did 

he  regret  her  ? 
In  her  habit  and  hat,  with  her  glad 

golden  hair,  [air, 

As  airy  and  blithe  as  a  blithe  bird  in 
And  her  arcli   rosy  lips,    and    her 

eager  blue  eyes, 


LUCILE. 


17 


With  their  little  impertinent  look  of 

surprise, 
And  her  round  youthful  figure,  and 

fair  neck,  below 
The     dark    drooping    feather,     as 

radiant  as  snow, — 
I  can  only  declare,  that  if  /  had  the 

chance 
Of  passing  three  days  in  the    ex- 
quisite glance 
Of  those  eyes,  or  caressing  the  hand 

that  now  petted 
That  fine  English  mare,   I    should 

much  have  regretted 
Whatever  might  lose  me  one  little 

half-hour 
Of  a  pastime  so  pleasant,  when  once 

in  my  power. 
For,  if  one  drop  of  milk  from  the 

bright  Milky-Way 
Could  turn  into   a  woman,  'twould 

look,  I  dare  say. 
Not  more  fresh  than  Matilda  was 

looking  that  day. 

VII. 

But,     whatever    the     feeling    that 

prompted  the  sigh 
With  which   Alfred   Vargrave  now 

watched  her  ride  by, 
I  can  only  affirm  that,  in  watching 

her  ride. 
As  he  turned  from  the  window,  he 

certainlv  sighed. 


CANTO  II. 


Letter  from  Lord  Alfred  Var- 
grave   to     the     COMTESSE     DE 

Nevers. 

"BiGORRE,  Tuesday. 
*'  Your  note.  Madam,  reached   me 

to-day.  at  Bigorre, 
And  commands  (need  I  add  ?)  my 

obedience.     Before 
The  ni2:ht  I  shall  be  at  Serchon, — 

where  a  line, 
If  sent  to  Duval's,  the  hotel  where  I 

dine, 


Will  find  me,  awaiting  your  orders. 

Keceive 
My  respects, 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"A.  Vargrave, 
"I  leave 
In  an  hour." 

II. 

In  an  hour  from  the  time  he  wrote 

this, 
Alfred     Vargrave,    in    tracking    a 

mountain  abyss. 
Gave  the  rein  to  his  steed  and  his 

thoughts,  and  pursued, 
In  pursuing  his  course  through  the 

blue  solitude. 
The  reflections  that    journey    gave 

rise  to. 

And  here 
(Because,   without  some  such  pre- 
caution, I  fear 
You  might  fail  to  distinguish  them 

each  from  the  rest 
Of  the  world  they  belong  to  ;  whose 

captives  are  drest, 
As  our  convicts,  precisely  the  same 

one  and  all. 
While  the  coat  cut  for  Peter  is  passed 

on  to  Paul) 
I  resolve,  one  by  one,  when  I  pick 

from  the  mass 
The  persons  I  want,  as  before  you 

they  pass. 
To  label  them  broadly  in  plain  black 

and  white 
On  the  backs  of  them.     Therefore 

whilst  yet  he's  in  sight, 
I  first  label  my  hero. 

III. 

The  age  is  gone  o'er 

When  a  man  may  in  all  things  be  all. 
We  have  more 

Painters,  poets,  musicians,  and  art- 
ists, no  doubt. 

Than  the  great  Cinquecento  gave 
birth  to;  but  out 

Of  a  million  of  mere  dilettanti,  when, 
when 

Will  a  new  Leonardo  arise  on  our 
ken? 


tS 


LUCILE, 


He  is  gone  with  the  age  which  begat 

him.     Our  own 
Is  too  vast,  and  too  complex,  for  one 

man  alone 
To  embody  its  purpose,  and  hold  it 

sliut  close 
In  the  palm  of  his  hand.    There  w^ere 

giants  in  those 
Irreclaimable  days  ;  but  in  these  days 

of  ours, 
In  dividing  the  work,  we  distribute 

the  powers. 
Yet  a  dwarf  on  a  dead  giant's  shoul- 
ders sees  more 
Than  the  'live  giant's  eyesight  avail- 
ed to  explore  ; 
And  in    life's  lengthened  alphabet 

what  used  to  be 
To  our  sires  X  Y  Z  is  to  us  A  B  C. 
A  Vanini   is   roasted  alive  for  his 

pains, 
But  a  Bacon  comes  after  and  picks 

up  his  brains. 
A  Bruno  is  angrily  seized   by  the 

throttle 
And    hunted    about  by  thy    ghost, 

Aristotle, 
Till  a  More  or  Lavater  step  into  his 

place  : 
Then  the  world  turns  and  makes  an 

admiring  grimace. 
Once  the  men  were  so  great  and  so 

few,  they  appear. 
Through  a  distant  Olympian  atmos- 
phere. 
Like  vast  Caryatids  uj^holding  the 

age. 
Now  the  men  are  so  many  and  small, 

disengage 
One  man  from  the  million  to  mark 

him,  next  moment 
The  crowd  sweeps  him  hurriedly  out 

of  your  comment  ; 
And  since  we  seek  vainly  (to  praise 

in  our  songs) 
'Mid  our  fellows  the  size  which  to 

lieroes  belongs. 
We  take  the  whole  age  for  a  hero,  in 

want 
Of  a  better  ;  and  still,  in  its  favor, 

descant 


On    the    strength    and   the    beauty  j 

which,  failing  to  find  . 

In  any  one  man,  we  ascribe  to  man-  j 

kind.  I 

IV. 

Alfred  Vargrave  was  one  of  those 
men  who  achieve 

So  little,  because  of  the  much  they 
conceive. 

With  irresolute  finger  he  knocked  at 
each  one 

Of  the  doorways  of  life,  and  abided 
in  none. 

His  coui-se,  by  each  star  that  would 
cross  it,  was  set,  [regret. 

And  whatever  he  did  he  was  sure  to 

That  target,  discussed  by  the  travel- 
lers of  old. 

Which  to   one  appeared  argent,  to 
one  appeared  gold. 

To  him,  ever  lingering  on  Doubt's 
dizzy  m argent. 

Appeared  in  one  moment  both  golden 
and  argent. 

The  man  who  seeks  one  thing  in  life, 
and  but  one,  [done  : 

May  hoi^e  to  achieve  it  before  life  be 

But  he  who  seeks  all  things,  wher- 
ever he  goes. 

Only  reaps  from   the  hopes  which 
around  him  he  sows. 

A  harvest  of  barren  regrets.     And 
the  worm 

That  crawls  on  in  the  dust  to  the 
definite  term 

Of  its  creeping  existence,  and  sees 
nothing  more 

Than  the  path  it  pursues  till  its  creep- 
ing be  o'er. 

In  its  limited  vision,  is  happier  far 

Than  the  Half-Sage,  whose  course, 
fixed  by  no  friendly  star, 

Is  by  each  star  distracted  m  turn,  and 
who  knows 

Each  will  still  be  as  distant  wherever 
he  goes. 

V. 

Both  brilliant  and  brittle,  both  bold 
and  unstable, 

Indecisive    yet    keen,   Alfred    Var- 
grave seemed  able 


LUCILE. 


To  dazzle,  but  not  to  illumine  man- 
kind. 

A  vigorous,  various,  versatile  mind  ; 

A  character  wavering,  fitful,  uncer- 
tain, 

As  the  shadow  that  shakes  o'er  a 
luminous  curtain, 

Yague,  flitting,  but  on  it  forever  im- 
pressing 

The  shape  of  some  substance  at 
which  you  stand  guessing  : 

When  you  said,  "  All  is  worthless 
and  weak  here,"  behold  ! 

Into  sight  on  a  sudden  there  seemed 
to  unfold  [the  man  : 

Great  outlines  of  strenuous  truth  in 

When  you  said,  "  Tliis  is  genius," 
the  outlines  grew  wan. 

And  his  life,  though  in  all  things  so 
gifted  and  skilled. 

Was,  at  best,  but  a  promise  which 
nothing  fulfilled. 


In  the  budding  of  youth,  ere  wild 
winds  can  deflower 

The  shut  leaves  of  man's  life,  round 
the  germ  of  his  power 

Yet  folded,  his  life  had  been  earnest. 
Alas  ! 

In   that  life  one  occasion,  one  mo- 
ment, there  was 

When  this  earnestness  might,  with 
the  life-sap  of  youth. 

Lusty  fruitage   liave   borne    in  his 
manhood's  full  growth; 

But  it  found  Iiim  too  soon,  when  his 
nature  was  still 

The  delicate  toy  of  too  pliant  a  will, 

The  boisterous  wind  of  the  world  to 
resist,  [wisdom. 

Or  the  frost  of  the  world's  wintry 
He  missed 

That  occasion,  too  rathe  in  its  ad- 
vent. 

Since  then, 

He  had  made  it  a  law,  in  his  com- 
merce with  men. 

That  intensity  in  him,  which  only 
left  sore  [ignore. 

The  heart  it  disturbed,  to  repel  and 


And  thus,  as  some  Prince  by  his 
subjects  deposed, 

Whose  strength  he,  by  seeking  to 
crush  it,  disclosed. 

In  resigning  the  power  he  lacked 
power  to  support, 

Turns  his  back  upon  courts,  with  a 
sneer  at  the  court, 

[n  his  converse  this  man  for  self- 
comfort  appealed 

To  a  cynic  denial  of  all  he  concealed 

In  the  instincts  and  feelings  belied 
by  his  words. 

Words,  however,  are  things  ;  and 
the  man  who  accords 

To  his  language  the  license  to  out- 
rage his  soul 

Is  controlled  by  the  words  he  dis- 
dains to  control. 

And,  therefore,  he  seemed  in  the 
deeds  of  each  day, 

The  light  code  proclaimed  on  his 
lips  to  obey  ; 

And,  the  slave  of  each  whim,  fol- 
lowed wilfully  aught 

That  perchance  fooled  the  fancy,  or 
flattered  the  thought. 

Yet,  indeed,  deep  within  liim,  the 
spirits  of  truth, 

Yast,  vague  aspirations,  the  powers 
of  his  youth, 

Lived  and  breathed,  and  made  moan 
— stirred  themselves  —  strove 
to  start 

Into  deeds — though  deposed,  in  tliat 
Hades,  his  heart, 

Like  those  antique  Theogonies  ru- 
ined and  hurled 

Under  clefts  of  the  hills,  which, 
convulsing  the  world. 

Heaved,  in  earthquake,  their  heads 
the  rent  caverns  above. 

To  trouble  at  times  in  the  light  court 
of  Jove  [fined  awe 

All  its  frivolous  gods,  with  an  unde- 

Of  wronged  rebel  powers  that  owned 
not  their  law. 

For  his  sake,  I  am  fain  to  believe 
that,  if  born 

To  some  lowlier  rank  (from  the 
world's  languid  scorn 


20 


LUCTLE. 


Secured  by  the  world's  stern  resist- 
ance), where  strife, 

Strife  and   toil,   and   not  pleasure, 
gave  piu'pose  to  life, 

He  possibly  might  have  contrived  to 
attain 

Not  eminence  only,  hut  worth.     So, 
a2,ain, 

Had  he  heen  of  his  own  house  the 
tirst-born,  each  gift 

Of  a  mind  many-gifted  had  gone  to 
uplift 

A  great  name  by  a  name's  greatest 
uses. 

But  there 

He  stood   isolated,    opposed,  as    it 
were, 

To  life's  great  realities  ;  part  of  no 
plan  ; 

And  if  ever  a  nobler  and    happier 
man 

He  might  hope  to  become,  that  alone 
could  be  when 

With  all  that  is  real  in  life  and  in 
men 

What  was  real  in  him  should   have 
been  reconciled  ; 

When  each  influence  now  from  ex- 
perience exiled 

Should   have  seized  on   his  being, 
combined  with  his  nature. 

And  formed,  as  by  fusion,  a  new  hu- 
man creature  : 

As  when  those  airy  elements  view- 
less to  sight 

(The  amalgam  of  which,  if  our  sci- 
ence be  right, 

The  germ   of  this  populous  planet 
^doth  fold) 

Unite  in  the  glass  of  the  chemist,  be- 
liold  ! 

Where  a  void  seemed  before  there  a 
substance  appears, 

From  the  fusion  of  forces  whence 
issued  the  spheres  ! 


But  the  permanent  cause  why  his 
life  failed  and  missed 

The  full  value  of  life  was, — where 
man  should  resist 


The  world,  which  man's  genius  is 

called  to  command, 
He  gave  way,  less  from  lack  of  the 

power  to  withstand. 
Than  from  lack  of  the  resolute  will 

to  retain 
Those  strongholds  of  life  which  the 

world  strives  to  gain. 
Let   this  character  go   in   the  old- 
fashioned  way, 
With  the  moral  thereof  tightly  tacked 

to  it.     Say — 
"  Let  any  man  once  show  the  world 

that  he  feels 
Afraid  of  its  bark,  and  'twill  fly  at 

his  heels  : 
Let  him  fearlessly  face  it,  'twill  leave 

him  alone  : 
But  'twill   fawn   at  his  feet   if  he 

flings  it  a  bone." 

VIII. 

The  moon  of  September,  now  half 
at  the  full. 

Was  unfolding  from  darkness  and 
dreamland  the  lull 

Of  the  quiet  blue  air,  where  tlie 
many-faced  hills 

Watched,  well-pleased,  their  fair 
slaves,  the  light,  foam-footed 
rills, 

Dance  and  sing  down  the  steep  mar- 
ble stairs  of  their  courts. 

And  gracefully  fashion  a  thousand 
sweet  sports. 

Lord  Alfred  (by  this  on  his  journey- 
ing far) 

Was  pensively  puffing  his  Lopez 
cigar. 

And  brokenly  humming  an  old  opera 
strain. 

And  thinking,  perchance,  of  those 
castles  in  Spain 

Which  that  long  rocky  barrier  hid 
from  his  sight  ; 

When  suddenly,  out  of  the  neighbor- 
ing night, 

A  horseman  emerged  from  a  fold  of 
the  hill. 

And  so  startled  his  steed,  that  was 
winding  at  will 


LUCILE. 


21 


Up  the  thin  dizzy  strip  of  a  pathway 
which  led 

O'er  the  mountain — the  reins  on  its 
neck,  and  its  head 

Hanging  lazily  forward — that,  but  for 
a  hand 

Light  and  ready,  yet  firm,  in  familiar 
command, 

Both  rider  and  horse  might  have 
been  in  a  trice 

Hurled  horribly  over  the  grim  prec- 
ipice. 


As  soon  as  the  moment's  alarai  had 

subsided, 
And  the  oath,  with  which  nothing 

can  find  unprovided 
A  thoroughbred  Englishman,  safely 

exploded, 
Lord  Alfred  unbent  (as  Apollo  his 

bow  did 
Now  and  then)  his  erectness  ;    and 

looking,  not  ruder 
Than   such   inroad  would  warrant, 

surveyed  the  intruder, 
Whose  arrival  so  nearly  cut  short  in 

his  glory 
My  hero,  and  finished  abruptly  this 

story. 


X. 


The  stranger,  a  man  of  his  own  age 

or  less, 

Well  mounted,  and  simple  though 
rich  in  his  dress. 

Wore  his  beard  and  mustache  in  the 
fashion  of  France. 

His  face,  which  was  pale,  gathered 
force  from  the  glance 

Of  a  pair  of  dark,  vivid,  and  eloquent 
eyes. 

With  a  gest  of  apology,  touched  with 
surprise. 

He  lifted  his  hat,  bowed  and  cour- 
teously made 

Some  excuse  in  such  well-cadenced 
French  as  betrayed, 

At  the  first  word  he  spoke,  the  Pa- 
risian. 


XI. 

I  swear 
I  have  wandered  about  m  the  world 

everywhere  ; 
From   many  strange  mouths  have 

heard  many  strange  tongues  ; 
Strained  with  many  strange  idioms 

my  lips  and  my  lungs  ; 
Walked  in  many  a  far  land,  regret- 
ting my  own ; 
In  many  a  language  groaned  many 

a  groan  ; 
And  have  often  had  reason  to  curse 

those  wild  fellows 
Who  built  the  high  house  at  which 

Heaven  turned  jealous, 
Making  human  audacity  stumble  and 

stammer 
When  seized   by  the  throat  in  the 

hard  gripe  of  Grammar. 
i  But  the  language  of  languages  dear- 
est to  me 
Is  that  in  which  once,  0  ma  tonle 

cherie. 
When,  together,  we  bent  o'er  your 

nosegay  for  hours. 
You  explained  what    was    silently 

said  by  the  flowers. 
And,  seiectins:  the  sweetest  of  all, 

sent  a  flame 
Through  my  heart,  as,  in  laughing, 

you  murmured,  Je  Vaime. 


The  Italians  have  voices  like  pea- 
cocks ;  the  Spanish 

Smell,  I  fancy,  of  garlic  ;  the  Swed- 
ish and  Danish 

Have  something  too  Famic,  too 
rough  and  unshod,  in 

Their  accent  for  mouths  not  descend 
ed  from  Odin  ; 

German  gives  me  a  cold  in  the  head, 
sets  me  wheezing 

And  coughing  ;  and  Russian  is  noth- 
ing; but  sneezing  ; 

But  by  Belus  and  Babel!  I  never 
have  heard, 

And  I  never  shall  hear  (I  well  knov; 
it],  one  word 


22 


LUCTLE. 


Of  that  delicate  diom  of  Paris  with- 
out 

Feeling  morally  sure,  beyond  ques- 
tion or  doubt, 

By  the  wild  way  in  which  my  heart 
inwardly  fluttered 

Thnt  my  heart's  native  tongue  to  my 
heart  had  been  uttered. 

And  whene'er  I  hear  French  spoken 
as  1  approve, 

I  feel  myself  quietly  falling  in  love. 

XIII. 

Lord  Alfred,  on  hearing  the  stran- 
ger, appeased 

By  a  something,  an  accent,  a  ca- 
dence, which  pleased 

His  ear  with  that  pledge  of  good 
breeding  which  tells 

At  once  of  the  world  in  whose  fel- 
lowship dwells 

The  speaker  that  owns  it,  was  glad 
to  remark 

In  the  horseman  a  man  one  might 
meet  after  dark 

Without  fear. 
And  thus,   not  disagreeably    im- 
press?d, 

As  it  seemed,  with  each  other,  the 
two  men  abreast 

Rode  on  slowly  a  moment. 

XIV. 

Stranger. 

I  see,  Sir,  you  are 
A  smoker.     Allow  me  ! 

Alfred. 

Pray  take  a  cigar. 
Stranger. 

Many  thanks  ! .  .  .  Such  cigars  are  a 

luxury  here. 
Do  you  go  to  Serchon  ? 
Alfred. 

Yes  ;  and  you  ? 
Stran^^er. 

Yes.     I  fear. 
Since  our  road  is  the  same,  that  our 
journey  must  be 


Somewhat  closer  than  is  our  ac- 
quaintance.    You  see 

How  narrow  the  path  is.  I'm  tempt- 
ed to  ask 

Your  permission  to  finish  (no  dif- 
ficult task  !  ) 

The  cigar  you  have  given  me  (really 
a  prize  ! ) 

In  your  company. 

Alfred. 
Charmed,  Sir,  to  find  your  road  lies 
In  the  way  of  my  own  inclinations ! 

Indeed 
The  dream  of  your  nation  I  find  in 

this  weed. 
In  the  distant  savannas  a  talisman 

grows 
That  makes  all  men  brothers  that 

use  it  .  .  .  who  knowr  ? 
That  blaze  which  erewhile  from  the 

Bo2tlevart  outbroke. 
It  has  ended  where  wisdom  begins, 

Sir, — in  smoke. 
Messieurs     Lopez    (whatever    your 

publicists  write) 
Have  done  more  in  their  way  human 

kind  to  unite. 
Perchance,  than  ten  Proudhons. 

Stranger. 

Yes.     Ah,  what  a  scene  ! 

Alfred. 

Humph" !  !N"ature  is  here  too  preten- 
tious.    Her  mien 

Is  too  haughty.  One  likes  to  be 
coaxed,  not  compelled, 

To  the  notice  such  beauty  resents  if 
withheld. 

She  seems  to  be  saying  too  plainly, 
"  Admire  me  !  " 

And  I  answer,  "  Yes,  madam,  I  do; 
but  you  tire  me." 

Stranger. 
That  sunset,  just  now  though  .  .  . 

Alfred. 

A  very  old  trick! 
One  would  think  that  the  sun  by  this 
time  must  be  sick 


LUCILE. 


23 


Cf  blushing  at  what,  by  this  time, 

he  must  know 
Too  well  to  be  shocked  by  — this 

world 

Stranger. 

Ah,  'tis  so 
With  us  all.     'Tis  the  sinner  that 

best  knew  the  world 
At  twenty,  whose  lip  is,  at  sixty, 

most  curled 
With  disdain  of  its  follies.  You  stay 

at  Serchon  ? 

Alfred. 
A  day  or  two  only. 

Straxger. 

The  season  is  done. 

Alfred. 
Already  ? 

Stranger. 
■  Tv.-as    shorter  this    year  than  the 
last, 
oily  soon  wears  her  shoes  out.  She 
dances  so  fast. 
We  are  all  of  us  tired. 

Alfred. 
You  know  the  place  well  ? 
Stranger. 
I  have  been  there  two  seast 
Alfred. 
Pray  who  is  the  Belle 
Of  the  Baths  at  this  moment  ? 

Stranger. 

The  same  who  has  been 
The  belle  of  all  places  in  which  she 

is  seen  ; 
The  belle  of  all  Paris  last  winter  ; 

last  sprinsj 
The  belle  of  all  Baden. 
Alfred. 

An  uncommon  thing  ! 
Stranger. 
Sir,   an  uncommon  beauty  !....! 

rather  should  say, 
An   uncommon  character.     Truly, 
each  day 


One  meets  women  whose  beauty  !3 

equal  to  hers. 
But  none  with  the  charm  of  Lucile 

de  Nevers. 

Alfred. 
Madame  de  Nevers  ? 

Stranger. 

Do  you  know  her  ? 

Alfred. 

I  know, 
Or,  rather,  I  knew  her — a  long  time 

ago. 
I  almost  forget .  .  . 

Stranger. 

What  a  wit  !  what  a  grace 
In  her  language  !  her  movements  I 

what  play  in  her  face  ! 
And  yet  what  a  sadness  she  seems  to 

conceal  ! 

Alfred. 
You  speak  like  a  lover. 

Stranger. 

I  speak  as  I  feel. 

But  not  like  a  lover.     What  interests 
me  so 

In  Lucile,  at  the  same  time  forbids 
me,  I  know, 

To  give  to  that  interest,  whate'er  the 
sensation, 

The  name  we  men  give  to  an  hour's 
admiration, 

A  night's   passing  passion,  an  ac- 
tress's eyes, 

A  dancing  girl's  ankles,  a  fine  lady's 
sighs. 

Alfred. 
Yes,  I  quite  comprehend.     But  this 

sadness — this  shade 
Which  you  speak  of  ?  ...  it  almost 

would  make  me  afraid 
Your     gay    countr^mien.    Sir,     less 

adroit  must  liave  grown. 
Since  when,  as  a  stripling,  at  Paria, 

I  own 


24 


LUCltE. 


I  found  in  them  terrible  rivals, — if  | 

vet  I 

They  have  all  lacked  the  skill  to  con-  ; 

sole  this  regret  i 

(If  regret  be  the  word  I  should  use),  ; 

or  fuliil  i 

This  desire  (if  desire  be  the  word),  \ 

which  seems  still  j 

To  endure  unappeased.     For  I  take  ! 

it  for  granted,  i 

From  ail  that  you  say,  that  the  will 

was  not  wanted. 

XV. 

The  stranger  replied,  not  without  ir- 
ritation : 

"  I  have  heard  that  an  Englishman 
— one  of  your  nation, 

I  presume — and  if  so,  I  must  beg 
you,  indeed, 

To  excuse  the  contempt  which  I .  ." 

Alfked. 

Pray,  Sir,  proceed 
With    your   tale.     My    compatriot, 
what  was  his  crime  ? 

Stranger. 

O,  nothing  !  His  folly  was  not  so 
subtime 

As  to  merit  that  term.  If  I  blamed 
him  just  now, 

It  was  not  for  the  sin,  but  the  silli- 
ness. 

Alfred. 

How? 
Stranger. 

I  own  I  hate  Botany.  Still,  ...  I 
admit, 

Although  I  myself  have  no  passion 
for  it, 

And  do  not  understand,  yet  I  can- 
not despise 

The  cold  man  of  science,  who  walks 
with  his  eyes 

All  alert  through  a  garden  of 
flowers,  and'strips 

The  lilies'  gold  tongues,  and  the 
roses'  red  lips, 

With  a  ruthless  dissection ;  since  he, 
1  suppose, 


Has  some  purpose  bej'ond  tie  mem         I 

Uiischief  he  does.  i 

But  the  stupid  and  mischievous  boy,  | 

that  uproots  | 

The  exotics,  and  tramples  the  tender         ' 

young  shoots,  i 

For  a  boy's^brutal  pastime,  and  only 

because 
He    knows     no    distinction    'twixt 

lieartsease  and  haws,— 
One  would  wish,  for  the  sake  of  each 

nm-sling  so  nipped, 
To  catch  the  young  rascal  and  have 

him  well  whipped  ! 

Alfred. 

Some  compatriot  of  mine,  do  I  then 

understand. 
With  a  cold  Northern  heart,  and  a 

rude  English  hand. 
Has  injured  your  Rosebud  of  France? 

Stranger. 

Sir,  I  know 
But  little,   or  nothing.     Yet    soiue 

faces  show 
The  last  act  of     tragedy  in  their  re- 
gard : 
Though  the  first  scenes  be  wanting, 

it  yet  is  not  hard 
To   divine,   more  or  less,  what  the 

plot  may  have  been, 
And  what  sort  of  actors  have  passed 

o'er  the  scene, 

v'heneve 

Lucile, 
With    its    pensive  and    passionless 

languor,  I  feel 
That     some     feeling    hath    burnt 

there  .  .  .  burn^  out,  and  burnt 

up 
Health  and  hope.     So  you  feel  when 

you  gaze  down  the  cup 
Of    extinguished    volcanoes :     you 

judge  of  the  fire 
Once  there,  by  the  ravage  you  see  ;— 

the  desire, 
By  the  apathy  left  in  its  wake,  and 

that  sense 
Of  a  moral,  immovable,  mute  impo- 
tence. 


LZ7CTLE. 


25 


Alfred. 
Humph! ...  I  see  you  have  finished, 

at  last,  j'^our  cigar. 
Can  I  offer  another  ? 

Stranger. 

No,  thank  you.    We  are 
Not  two  miles  from  Serchon. 
Alfred. 
You  know  the  road  well  ? 

Stranger. 
I  have  often  been  over  it. 

XVI. 

Here  a  pause  fell 
On   their  converse.     Still  musingly 

on,  side  by  side. 
In  the  moonlight,  the  two  men  con- 
tinued to  ride 
Down  the  dim  mountain  pathway. 

But  each,  for  the  rest 
Of  their  journey,  although  they  still 

rode  on  abreast, 
Continued  to  follow  in  silence  the 

train  [ed  his  brain; 

Of  the  different  feelings  that  haunt- 
And  each,  as  though  roused  from  a 

deep  reverie, 
Almost    shouted,    descending    the 

mountain,  to  see 
Burst  at  once  on  the  moonlight  the 

silvery  Baths, 
The  long  lime-tree  alley,   the  dark 

gleaming  paths, 
With  the  lamps  twinkling  through 

them  —  the     quaint    wooden 

roofs — 
The  little  white  houses. 

The  clatter  of  hoofs. 
And  the  music  of  wandering  bands, 

up  the  walls 
Of  the  steep  hanging  hill,  at  remote 

intervals 
Reached  them,  crossed  by  the  sound 

of  the  clacking  of  whips, 
And  here  and  there,  faintly,  through 

serpentine  slips 
Of  verdant  rose-gardens,  deep-shel- 
tered with  screens 


Of  airy  acacias  and  dark  evergreens, 
They  could  mark  the  while  dresses, 

and  catcli  the  light  songs, 
Of  the   lovely   Parisians  that  wan 

dered  in  throngs, 
Led  by  Laughter  and  Love  throu'xh 

the  cold  eventide 
Down  the  dream-haunted  valley,  or 

up  the  hillside. 

xvn. 
At  length,  at  the  door  of  the  inn 

I'Herissox, 
(Pray  go  there,  if  ever  you  go  to  Ser- 
chon!) 
The  two  horsemen,  well  pleased  to 

have  reached  it,  alighted 
And  exchanged  their  last  greetings 
The  Frenchman  invited 
Lord  Alfred  to  dinner.    Lord  Alfred 

declined. 
He  had   letters    to  write,  and   felt 

tired.     So  he  dined 
In  his  own  rooms  that  night. 

With  an  unquiet  eye 
He  watched  his  companion  depart; 

nor  knew  why. 
Beyond   all  accountable  reason    or 

measure. 
He  felt  in  his  breast  such  a  sovra^_ 

displeasure. 
"  The    fellow's    good-looking,"    he 

murmured  at  last, 
*'  And  yet  not  a  coxcomb."    Some 

ghost  of  the  past 
Vexed  him  still. 

"  If  he    love    her,"  he    thought, 

"  let  him  win  her." 
Then  he  turned  to  the  futui^e— and 

ordered  his  dinner. 
xvriL 
O  hour  of  all  hours,  the  most  blessed 

upon  earth, 
Blessed  hour  of  our  dinners! 

The  land  of  his  birth: 
The  face  of  his  first  love;  the  bilb 

that  he  owes; 
The    twaddle    of    friends    and    the 

venom  of  foes; 
The  sermon  he  heard  when  to  church 

he  last  went; 


26 


LUCILE. 


The  money  he  borrowed,  the  money 

he  spent, — 
All  of  these  things  a  man,  I  believe, 

may  forget, 
And  not  be  the  worse  for  forgetting; 

but  yet 
Never,     never,     O    never!    earth's 

luckiest  sinner 
Hath  unpunished  forgotten  the  hour 

of  his  dinner  I 
Indigestion,  that  conscience  of  every 

bad  stomach. 
Shall  relentlessly  gnaw  and  pursue 

him  with  some  ache 
Or  some  pain;  and  trouble,  remorse- 
less, his  best  ease, 
As  the  Furies  once  troubled  the  sleep 

of  Orestes. 

XIX. 

We  may  live  without  poetry,  music, 

and  art  ; 
We  may  live  without  conscience,  and 

live  without  heart  ; 
We  may  live  without  friends  ;  we 

may  live  without  books  ; 
But  civilized  man  cannot  live  with- 
out cooks. 
He  may  live  without  books,— what 

is  knowledge  but  grieving  ? 
He  may  live  without  hope, — what  is 

hope  but  deceiving  ? 
He  may  live  without  love, — what  is 

passion  but  pining  ? 
But  where  is  the  man  that  can  live 

without  dining  ? 


Lord  Alfred  found,  waiting  his  com- 
ing, a  note 

From  Lucile. 
'*  Your  last  letter  has  reached  me," 
she  wrote.  [the  ball, 

"  This  evening,  alas  !  I  must  go  to 

And  shall  not  be  at  home  till  too 
late  for  your  call  ; 

But    to-morrow,  at  any  rate,  sans 
faule,  at  One 

You  will  find  me  at  home,  and  will 
find  me  alone. 

Meanwhile,  let  me  thank  you  sincere- 
ly, milord, 


For  the  honor  with  which  you  ad- 
here to  your  word. 

Yes,  I  thank  you.  Lord  Alfred  !  To- 
morrow, then. 

"L." 

XXI. 

I  find  myself  terribly  puzzled  to  tell 
The  feeling  with  which  Alfred  Vai- 

grave  flung  down 
This  note,  as  he  poured  out  his  wine. 

I  must  own 
That  I  think  he  himself  could  have 

hardly  explained 
Those  feelings  exactly. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  as  he  drained 
The     glass    down,     he     muttered, 

"  Jack's  right,  after  all. 
The  coquette  ! " 
"Does  milord  mean  to  go  to  the 

ball  ?  " 
Asked  the  waiter,  who  lingered. 

"  Perhaps.     I  don't  know. 
You  may  keep  me  a  ticket,  in  case  I 

should  go." 

XXII. 

O,  better,  no  doubt,  is  a  dinner  of 
herbs. 

When  seasoned  by  love,  which  no 
rancor  disturbs, 

And  sweetened  by  all  that  is  sweet- 
est in  life, 

Than  turbot,  bisque,  ortolans,  eaten 
in  striife  ! 

But  if,  out  of  humor,  and  hungry, 
alone, 

A  man  should  sit  down  to  a  dinner, 
each  one 

Of  the  dishes  of  which  the  cooic 
chooses  to  spoil 

With  a  horrible  mixture  of  garlic  and 
oil. 

The  chances  are  ten  against  one,  I 
must  own. 

He  gets  up  as  ill-tempered  as  when 
he  sat  down. 

And  if  any  reader  this  fact  to  dis- 
pute is 

Disposed,  I  say.  .  .  ^^ Allium  edat 
ci  cutis 

Nocentius  !  " 


I.UCILE. 


27 


Over  the  fruit  and  the  wine 
Undisturbed  the  wasp  settled.     The 

evening  was  tine. 
Lord  Alfred  his  chair  by  the  window 

had  set,  cigarette. 

And    languidly    lighted    his    small 
The  window  was  open.     The  warm 

air  without 
"Waved    the   flame  of    the    candles. 

The  moths  were  about. 
In  the  gloom  he  sat  gloomy. 

XXIII. 

Gay  sounds  from  below 
Floated  up  like  faint  echoes  of  joys 

long  ago, 
And  night  deepened  apace;  through 

the  dark  avenues 
The  lamps  twinkled  bright;  and  by 

threes,  and  by  twos, 
The  idlers  of  Serchon  were  strolling 

at  will, 
As  Lord  Alfred  could  see  from  the 

cool  window-sill, 
Wliere  his    gaze,   as    he    languidly 

turned  it,  fell  o'er 
His  late  travelling  companion,  now 

passing  before 
The  inn,  at  the  window  of  which  he 

still  sat, 
In  full  toilet, — boots  varnished,  and 

snowy  cravat, 
Gayly  smoothing  and  buttoning  a 

yellow  kid  glove. 
As  he  tm-ned  down  the  avenue. 

Watching  above. 
From  his  window,  the  stranger,  who 

stopped  as  he  walked 
To  mix  with  those  groups,  and  now 

nodded,  now  talked, 
To  the  young  Paris  dandies,  Lord 

Alfred  discerned. 
By  the  way  hats  were  lifted,  and 

glances  were  turned. 
That  this   unknown    acquaintance, 

now  bound  for  the  ball, 
Was  a  person  of  rank  or  of  fashion  ; 

for  all 
Whom  he  bowed  to  in  passing,  or 

stopped  with  and  chattered, 
Walked  on  with  a  look  which  im- 
plied ..."  I  feel  flattered  !  " 


XXIV. 


His  form  was  soon  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance and  gloom. 

XXV. 

Lord  Alfred  still  sat  by  himself  in 

his  room. 
He  had  finished,  one  after  the  other, 

a  dozen 
Or  more  cigarettes.    He  had  thought 

of  his  cousin  : 
He  had    thought  of    Matilda,   and 

thought  of  Lucile  : 
He  had  thought  about  many  things: 

thought  a  great  deal 
Of  himself  :  of  his  past  life,  his  fu- 
ture, his  present  : 
He  had  thought  of  the  moon,  neither 

full  moon  nor  crescent  : 
Of  the  gay  world,  so  sad  !  life,  so 

sweet  and  so  som*  ! 
He  had  thought,  too.  r^f  ;:Iory,  and 

fortune,  and  p*  •.    -  ; 
Thought  of  love,  ami  iiu'  country, 

and  sympathy,  and 
A  poet's  asylum  in    some    distant 

land  : 
Thought  of  man  in  the  abstract,  and 

woman,  no  doubt. 
In  pai  licular  ;  also  he  had  thought 

much  about 
His  digestion,   his  debts,   and    his 

dinner  ;  and  last. 
He  thought  that  the  night  would  be 

stupidly  passed. 
If  he  thought  any  more  of  such  mat- 
ters at  all  : 
So  he  rose,  and  resolved  to  set  out 

for  the  ball. 

XXVI. 

I  believe,  ere  he  finished  his  tardy 

toilet, 
That  Lord  Alfred  had  spoiled,  and 

flung  by  in  a  pet. 
Half  a  dozen  white  neckcloths,  and 

looked  for  the  nonce 
Twenty   times   in   the  glass,   if    he 

looked  iu  it  once. 


28 


LUCTLE. 


I  believe  that  he  split  up,  in  drawing 
them  on, 

Three  pair  of  pale  lavender  gloves, 
one  by  one. 

And  this  is  the  reason,  no  doubt, 
that  at  last, 

When  he  reached  the  Casino,  al- 
though he  walked  fast. 

He  heard,  as  he  huiTiedly  entered 
the  door, 

The  church-clock  strike  Twelve. 


The  last  waltz  was  just  o'er. 
The  chaperons  and  dancers  were  all 

in  a  flutter. 
A  crowd  blocked  the  door  :  and  a 

buzz  and  a  mutter 
Went  about  in  the  room  as  a  young 

man,  whose  face 
Lord  Alfred  had  seen  ere  he  entered 

that  place, 
But  a  few  hours  ago,  through  the 

l)erfumed  and  warm 
Flowery  porch,  with    a    lady    that 

leaned  on  his  arm 
Like  a  queen  in  a  fable  of  old  fairy 

days, 
Left  the  ballroom. 

XXVIII. 

The  hubbub  of  comment  and  praise 
Reached  Lord  Alfred  as  just  then  he 
entered. 

"  Ma  foi  I " 

Said  a  Frenchman  beside  him 

"  That  lucky  Luvois 

Has  obtained  all  the  gifts  of  the 
gods  .  .  .  rank  and  v/ealth. 

And  good  looks,  and  then  such  inex- 
haustible health! 

He  that  hath  shall  have  more ;  and 
this  truth,  I  surmise, 

Is  the  cause  why,  to-night,  by  the 
beautiful  eyes 

Of  la  charmantc  Lucile  more  distin- 
guished than  all, 

He  so  gaylv  goes  off  with  £he  belle  of 
the  baU." 


'"Is  it  true,"  asked  a  lady,  aggres: 

sively  fat. 
Who,  fierce  as  a  female  Leviathan. 

sat 
By  another  that  looked  like  a  needle 

all  steel 
And  tenuity, — "  Luvois  will  marry 

Lucile?" 
The  needle  seemad  jerked  by  a  viru- 
lent twitch. 
As  though  it  were  bent  upon  driving 

a  stitch 
Through  somebody's  character. 

"  Madam,"  replied, 
Interposing,  a  young  man  who  sat  by 

their  side. 
And  was  languidly  fanning  his  face 

with  his  hat, 
"  I  am  ready  to  bet  my  new  Tilbury 

that, 
If  Luvois  has  proposed,  the  Comtesse 

has  refused." 
The  fat  and  thin  ladies  were  highly 

amused. 
'*  Refused  !    .    .    .    what  !  a  young 

Duke,  not  thirty,  my  dear, 
With  at  least  half  a  million  (what  is 

it  ?)  a  year  !  " 
"  That  may  be,"  said  the  third; ''  yet 

I  know  some  time  since 
Castelmar  was  refused,   though  as 

rich,  and  a  Prince. 
But  Luvois,  who  was  never  before  in 

his  life 
In  love  with  a  woman  who  was  not 

a  wife. 
Is  now  certainly  serious." 

XXIX. 

The  music  once  more 
Recommenced. 

XXX. 

Said  Lord  Alfred,    ''  This  ball  is  a 

bore!" 
And  returned  to  the  inn,  somewhat 

worse  than  before. 

XXXI. 

There,  whilst  musing  he  leaned  the 

dark  valley  above, 
Through  the  w  arm  land  were  wan 

dering  the  spirits  of  love. 


LUCILE. 


-29 


A  soft  breeze  in  the  white  window 

drapery  stirred  ; 
In  the   blossomed  acacia    the  lone 

cricket  chirred ; 
The  scent  of  the  roses  fell  faint  o'er 

the  night, 
And  the  moon  on  the  mountain  was 

dreaming  in  light. 
Eepose,  and  yet  rapture !  that  pensive 

wild  nature 
Impregnate    with  passion   in    each 

breathing  feature ! 
A  stone's-thro w  from  thence,  through 

the  large  lime-trees  peeped, 
In  a  garden  of  roses,  a  white  chalet, 

steeped 
In  the  moonbeams.     The  windows 

oped  down  to  the  lawn  ; 
The  casements  were  open;  the  cur- 
tains were  drawn ; 
Lights  streamed  from  the  inside ;  and 

with  them  the  sound 
Of  music  and  song.     In  the  garden, 

around  [there  set, 

A  table  with  fruits,  wine,  tea,  ices. 
Half  a  dozen  yomig  men  and  young 

women  were  met. 
Light,    laughter,   and    voices,    and 

music,  all  streamed 
Through  the  quiet-leaved  limes.     At 

the  Avindow  there  seemed 
For  one  moment  the  outline,  familiar 

and  fair, 
Of  a  white  dress,  a  white  neck,  and 

soft  dusky  hair, 
Which  Lord  Alfred  remembered  .  .  . 

a  moment  or  so 
It  hovered,  then  passed  into  shadow; 

and  slow 
The  soft  notes,  from  a  tender  piano 

upflung, 
Floated  forth,  and  a  voice  unforgot- 

ten  thus  sung: 
"  Hear  a  song  that  was  born  in  the 
land  of  my  birth! 
The  anchors  are  lifted,  the  fair 
ship  is  free. 
And  the  sliout  of    the  mariners 
floats  in  its  mirth 
'Twixt  the  light  in  the  sky  and 
the  light  ou  the  sea. 


"  And  this  ship  is  a  world.     She  is 
freighted  with  souls, 
She  is  freighted  with  merchan- 
dise: proudly  she  sails 
With  the  Labor  that  stores,  and 
the  Will  that  controls 
The  gold  in  the  ingots,  the  silk 
in  the  bales. 

"  From   the   gardens    of    Pleasure, 
where  reddens  the  rose, 
And  the  scent  of  the  cedar  is 
faint  on  the  air, 
Past  the  harbors  of  Traffic,  sub- 
limely she  goes, 
Man's  hopes  o'er  the  world  of 
the  waters  to  bear  ! 

"  Where  the  cheer  from  the  harbors 
of  Traffic  is  heard, 
Where  the  gardens  of  Pleasure 
fade  fast  on  the  sight. 
O'er  the  rose,  o'er  the  cedar,  there 
passes  a  bird ; 
'Tis    the  Paradise  Bird,   never 
known  to  alight. 

"  And  that  bird,  bright  and  bold  as  a 
Poet's  desire. 
Roams  her  own  native  heavens, 
the  realms  of  her  birth. 
There  she  soars  like  a  seraph,  she 
shines  like  a  fire. 
And  her   plumage    hath  never 
been  sullied  by  earth. 

"  And  the  mariners  greet  her;  there's 
song  on  each  lip. 
For  that  bird  of  good  omen,  and 
joy  in  each  eye. 
And  the  ship  and  the  bird,  and  the 
bird  and  the  ship, 
Together  go  forth  over  ocean  and 
sky. 

"Fast,  fast  fades  the  land!  far  the 
rose-gardens  flee. 
And  far  fleet  the  harbors.     In 
regions  unknown 
The  ship  is  alone  on  a  desert  of 
sea. 
And  the  bird  in  a  desert  of  sky 
is  alone. 


30* 


LUCILE, 


*'  In  those    regions  unknown,  o'er 
that  desert  of  air, 
Down  that  desert  of  waters — tre- 
mendous in  wrath — 
The  storm-wind  Euroclydon  leaps 
from  his  lair, 
And  cleaves,  through  the  waves 
of  the  ocean,  his  path. 

"  And  the  bird  in  the  cloud,  and  the 
ship  on  the  wave, 
Overtaken,  are  beaten  about  by 
wild  gales : 
And  the  mariners   all  rush  their 
cargo  to  save. 
Of  the  gold  in  the  ingots,  the 
silk  in  the  bales. 

*■'  Lo !  a  wonder,  which  never  before 
hath  been  heard. 
For  it  never  before  hath  been 
given  to  sight ; 
On  the  ship  hath  descended  the 
Paradise  Bird, 
The  Paradise  Bird,  never  known 
to  alight ! 

"  The  bird  which  the  mariners  bless- 
ed, when  each  lip 
Had  a  song  for  the  omen  that 
gladdened  each  eye ; 
The  bright  bird  for  shelter  hath 
flown  to  the  ship 
From  the  wrath  on  the  sea  and 
the  wrath  in  the  sky. 

"  But  the  mariners  heed  not  the  bird 
any  more. 
They  are  felling  the  masts, — they 
are  cutting  the  sails ; 
Some  are  working,  some  weeping, 
and  some  wrangling  o'er 
Their  gold  in   the  ingots,  their 
silk  in  the  bales. 

"  Souls  of  men  are  on  board ;  wealth 
of  man  in  the  hold ; 
And  the  :;torm-wind  Euroclydon 
sweeps  to  his  prey ; 
And  who  heeds  the  bird  ?    *  Save 
the  silk  and  the  gold ! ' 
And  the  bird  from  her  shelter 
the  gust  sweeps  away  I 


"  Poor  Paradise  Bird!  on  her  lone 
flight  once  more 
Back  again  in  the  wake  of  the 
wind  she  is  driven,— 
To  be  'whelmed  in  the  storm,  or 
above  it  to  soar, 
And,  if  rescued  from  ocean,  to 
vanish  in  heaven ! 

"  And  the  ship  rides  the  waters,  and 
weathers  the  gales  : 
From  the  haven  she  nears  the 
rejoicing  is  heard. 
All  hands  are  at  work  on  the  ingots, 
the  bales. 
Save  a  child,  sitting  lonely,  who 
misses — the  Bird  ! " 


CANTO  III. 


With  stout  iron  shoes  be  my  Pega- 
sus shod ! 
For  my  road  is  a  rough  one  :  flint, 

stubble,  and  clod, 
Blue    clay,    and     black    quagmire, 

brambles  no  few, 
And  I  gallop  up-hill,  now. 

There's  terror  that's  true 
In  that  tale  of  a  youth  who,  one  night 

at  a  revel, 
Amidst  music  and  mirth  lured  and 

wiled  by  some  devil, 
Followed  ever  one  mask  through  tlia 

mad  masquerade. 
Till,  pursued  to  some  chamber  de- 
serted ('tis  said). 
He    unmasked,    with    a    kiss,    the 

strange  lady,  and  stood 
Face  to  face  vrith  a  Thing  not  of 

flesh  nor  of  blood. 
In    this    Masque    of    the  Passions, 

called  Life,  there  's  no  human 
Emotion,  though  masked,  or  in  man 

or  in  woman. 
But,  when  faced   and  unmasked,  it 

will  leave  us  at  last 
Struck  by  some  supernatural  aspect 

aghast. 


LUCILE. 


31 


For  truth  is   appalling  and  eldrich, 

as  seen 
3y  this  world's  artificial  lamplights, 

and  we  screen 
From  our  sight  the  strange  vision 

that  troubles  our  life. 
Alas  !    why  is    Genius    forever    at 

strife 
With  the  W'orld,  which,  despite  the 

world's  self,  it  ennobles  '? 
Why  is  it  that  Genius  pei^Dlexes  and 

troubles 
And  offends  the  effete  life  it  comes 

to  renew  '? 
*Tis  the  terror    of  truth  \  'tis   that 

Genius  is  true  ! 
II. 
Lucile  de   Xevers  (if  her   riddle    I 

read) 
Was  a  woman  of  genius  :  whose  gen- 
ius, indeed, 
With  her  life  was   at  war.     Once, 

but  once,  in  that  lire 
The  chance  had  been  hers  to  escape 

from  this  strife 
lu  herself  ;  finding  peace  in  the  life 

of  another 
From  the  passionate  wants  she,  in 

hers,  failed  to  smother. 
But  the  chance  fell  too  soon,  when 

the  crude  restless  power 
Which  had  been  to  her  nature  so 

fatal  a  dovrer, 
Only  wearied  the  man  it  yet  haunted 

and  thralled  ; 
And  that  moment,  once   lost,   had 

been  never  recalled. 
Yet  it  left  her  heart  sore  :   and,  to 

shelter  her  heart 
From  approach,  she  then  sought,  in 

that  delicate  art 
Of    concealment,    those     thousand 

adroit  strategies 
Of  feminine  wit,  which  repel  while 

they  please, 
A  weapon,  at  once,  and  a  shield,  to 

conceal 
And  defend  all  that  women  can  ear- 
nestly feel. 
Thus,  striving  her  instincts  to  hide 

and  repress, 


She  felt  frightened,  at  times,  by  her 

very  success  : 
She    pined    for    the    hill-tops,    the 

clouds,  and  the  stars  : 
Golden  wires  may  annoy  us  as  much 

as  steel  bars 
If  they  keep  us  behind  prison-win- 
dows :  impassioned 
Her  heart  rose  and  burst  the  light 

cage  she  had  fashioned 
Out  of  glittering  trifles  around  it. 

Unknown 
To  herself,  all  her  instincts,  without 

hesitation,  [tion. 

Embraced  the  idea  of  self-immola- 
The  strong  spirit  in  her,  had  her  life 

been  but  blended 
With  some  man's  whose  heart  had 

her  own  comprehended, 
All  its  Vv'^ealth  at  his  feet  would  have 

lavishly  thrown. 
For  him    she    had    struggled    and 

striven  alone  ; 
For  him  had  aspired  ;  in  him  had 

transfused 
All  the  gladness  and  grace  of  her 

nature  :  and  used 
For  him  only  the  spells  of  its  delicate 

power  : 
Like     the     ministering    fairy   that 

brings  from  her  bower 
To  some    mage    all   the  treasures, 

vdiose  use  the  fond  elf, 
More  enriched   by  her   love,  disre- 
gards for  herself. 
But,  standing  apart,  as  she  ever  had 

done, 
And  her  genius,    which  needed  a 

vent,  finding  none 
In  the  broad  fields  of  action  thrown 

wide  to  man's  power. 
She  unconsciously  made  it  her  bul- 
wark and  tower. 
And  built  in  it  her  refuge,  whence 

lightly  she  hurled 
Her  contempt  at  the  fashions  and 

forms  of  the  world. 

And  the  permanent  cause  why  she 
now  missed  and  failed 

That  firm  hold  upon  life  she  so 
keenly  assailed. 


32 


LVCILE. 


Was,  in  all  those  diurnal  occasions 

that  place 
Say — the  world  and  the  woman  op- 
posed face  to  face, 
Where  the  woman  must  yield,  she, 

refusing  to  stir, 
C)ffended  the  world,  which  in  turn 

wounded  her. 
As  before,  in  the  old-fashioned  man- 
ner, I  fit 
To  this  character,  also,  its  moral  :  to 

wit, 
Say — the  world  is  a  nettle;  disturb 

it,  it  stings  : 
Grasp  it  firmly,  it  stings  not-  On  one 

of  two  things, 
If  you  would  not  be  stung,  it  be- 
hooves you  to  settle  : 
Avoid  it,  or  crush  it.     She  crushed 

not  the  nettle  ; 
For  she  could  not  ;  nor  would  she 

avoid  it  :  she  tried 
With  the  weak  hand  of  woman  to 

thrust  it  aside, 
And  it  stung  her.     A  woman  is  too 

slight  a  thing 
To  trample  the  world  without  feel- 
ing its  sting. 
III. 
One  lodges  but  simply  at  Serchon  ; 

yet,  thanks 
To  the  season  that  changes  forever 

the  banks 
Of  the   blossoming  mountains,  and 

shifts  the  light  cloud 
O'er  the  valley,  and  hushes  or  rouses 

the  loud 
Wind  that   wails    in  the  pines,   or 

creeps  murmuring  down 
The  dark  evergreen  slopes   to    the 

slumbering  town, 
And  the  torrent  that  falls,  faintly 

heard  from  afar, 
And  the  bluebells  that  purple  the 

dapple-gray  scaur, 
One  sees  with  each  month  of  the 

many-faced  year 
A  thousand  sweet  changes  of  beauty 

appear. 
The  chalet  where  dwelt  the  Com- 

tesse  de  Nevers 


Rested  half  up  the  base  of  a  moun- 
tain of  firs, 
'  In  a  garden  of  roses,  reveaied  to  the 

road. 
Yet withdraAvn  from  its  noise:  'twas 

a  peaceful  abode. 
And  the  walls,  and  the  roofs,  with 

their  gables  like  hoods 
Which  the  monks  wear,  were  built 

of  sweet  resinous  woods. 
The  sunlight  of  noon,  as  Lord  Alfred 

ascended 
The  steep  garden  paths,  every  odor 

had  blended 
Of  the  ardent  carnations,  and  faint 

heliotropes. 
With  the  balms  floated  down  from 

the  dark  w^ooded  slopes  : 
A  light  breeze  at  the  windows  was 

playing  about. 
And  the  white  curtains  floated,  nov,- 

in  and  now  out. 
The  house  was  all  hushed  when  h) 

rang  at  the  door, 
IVliich  was  opened  to  him  in  a  mo- 
ment, or  more. 
By  an  old  nodding   negress,  whose 

sable  head  shined 
In  the  sun  like  a  cocoa-nut  polished 

in  Ind, 
'Neath    the    snowy  foulard    which 

about  it  was  wound. 

IV. 

Lord  Alfred  sprang  forward  at  once, 

with  a  bound. 
He  remembered  the  nurse  of  Lucile. 

The  old  dame, 
Whose  teeth  and  whose  eyes  used  to 

beam  when  he  came. 
With  a  boy's  eager  step,  in  the  blithe 

days  of  yore. 
To  pass,  unannounced,  her  young 

mistress's  door. 
The  old  woman  had  fondled  Lucile 

on  her  knee 
When  she  left,  as  an  infant,  far  over 

the  sea. 
In  India,  the  tomb  of  a  mother,  un- 
known, 
To  pine,    a  pale  floweret,  in  great 

Paris  town. 


LUCTLE. 


33 


She  had  soothed  the  child's  sobs  on 
her  breast,  when  she  read 

The  letter  that  told  her  her  father 
was  dead. 

An  astute,  shrewd  adventurer,  who, 
like  Ulysses, 

Had  studied  men,  cities,  laws,  wars, 
the  abysses 

Of  statecraft,  with  varying  fortunes, 
v/as  he. 

He  had  wandered  the  world  through, 
by  land  and  by  sea. 

And  knew  it  in  most  of  its  phases. 
Strong  will, 

Subtle  tact,  and  soft  manners,  had 
given  him  skill 

To  conciliate  Fortune,  and  courage 
to  brave 

Her  displeasure.    Thrice  shipwreck- 
ed, and  cast  by  the  wave 

On  his  own   quick  resources,  they 
rarely  had  failed 

His    command :    often    baffled,    he 
ever  prevailed, 

In    his    combat  with  fate  :    to-day 
flattered  and  fed 

By  monarchs,  to-morrow  in  search 
of  mere  bread. 

The    offspring     of    times    trouble- 
haunted,  he  came 

Of  a  family  ruined,   yet  noble    in 
name. 

He  lost  sight  of  his  fortune  at  twen- 
ty in  France  ; 

And,   half   statesman,  half  soldier, 
and  wholly  Free-lance, 

Had  wandered  in  search  of  it,  over 
the  world, 

Into  India. 

But  scarce  had  the  nomad  un- 
furled 

His   wandering  tent  at  Mysore,  in 
the  smile 

Of  a  Rajah  (whose  court  he  con- 
trolled for  awhile, 

And  whose  council  he  prompted  and 
governed  by  stealth); 

Scarce,  indeed,  had  he  wedded   an 
Indian  of  wealth, 

Who  died  giving  birth  to  this  daugh- 
ter, before 


He  v/as  borne  to  the  tomb  of  his  wife 
at  Mysore. 

His  fortmie,  which  fell  to  his  or- 
phan, perchance, 

Had  secured  her  a  home  with  his 
sister  in  France, 

A  lone  woman,  the  last  of  the  race 
left.     Lucile 

Neither  felt,  nor  affected,  the  wish 
to  conceal 

The  half-Eastern  blood,  which  ap- 
peared to  bequeath 

(Revealed  now  and  then,  though  but 
rarely,  beneath 

That  outward  repose  that  concealed 
it  in  her) 

A  something  half  wild  to  her  strange 
character. 

The  nurse  with  the  orphan,  awhile 
broken-hearted. 

At  the  door  of  a  convent  in  Paris 
had  parted. 

But  later,  once  more,  with  her  mis- 
tress she  tarried, 

When  the  girl,  by  that  grim  maiden 
aunt,  had  been  married 

To  a  dreary  old  Count,  who  had  sul- 
lenly died. 

With  no  claim  on   her  tears, — she 
had  wept  as  a  bride. 

Said  Lord  Alfred,    ''  Your  mistress 
expects  me." 

The  crone 

Oped  the  drawing-room  door,  and 
there  left  him  alone. 


V. 


O'er  the  soft  atmosphere  of  this 
temple  of  grace 

Rested  silence  and  perfume.  No 
sound  reached  the  place. 

In  the  white  curtains  wavered  the 
delicate  shade 

Of  the  heaving  acacias,  through 
which  the  breeze  played. 

O'er  the  smooth  wooden  floor,  pol- 
ished dark  as  a  glass, 

Fragrant  white  India  matting  aiiow- 
ed  you  to  pass. 


34 


LUCILE. 


In  light  olive   baskets,  by  window 
and  door, 

Some  hung  from  the  ceiling,  some 
crowding  the  floor, 

Rich  wild-flowers  plucked  by  Lucile 
from  the  hill. 

Seemed  the  room  with  their  passion- 
ate presence  to  fill  : 

Blue  aconite,  hid  in  white  roses,  re- 
posed ; 

The  deep  belladonna  its  vermeil  dis- 
closed ; 

And  the  frail  saponaire,    and  the 
tender  bluebell, 

And  the  purple  valerian, — each  child 
of  the  fell 

And  the  solitude  flourished,  fed  fair  j 
from  the  source  j 

Of  waters  the  huntsman  scarce  heeds  I 
in  his  course. 

Where  the      amois  and  izard,  with 
delicate  hoof, 

Pause  or  flit  through  the  pinnacled 
silence  aloof. 


VI. 

Here  you  felt  by  the  sense  of   its 

beauty  reposed. 
That  you  stood  in  a  shrine  of  sweet 

thoughts.     Half  unclosed 
In  the  light  slept  the  flowers  :   all 

was  pure  and  at  rest  ; 
All  peaceful;  all  modest;  all  seemed 

self-possessed, 
And  aware  of  the  silence.     No  ves- 
tige or  trace 
Of  a  young  woman's  coquetry  trou- 
bled the  place. 
He  stood  by  the  window.    A  cloud 

passed  the  sun. 
A  light  breeze  uplifted  the  leaves, 

one  by  one. 
Just  then  Lucile  entered  the  room, 

Undiscerned 
By  Lord  Alfred,  v/hose  face  to  the 

window  was  turned. 
In  a  strange  revery. 

The  time  was,  when  Lucile, 
In  beholding  that  man,  could   not 

help  but  reveal 


The  rai3ture,the  fear  which  wrenched 
out  eveiy  nerve 

In  the  heart  of  the  girl  from  the  wo- 
man's reserve. 

And  now — she  gazed  at  him,  calm, 
smiling, — perchance 

Indifferent. 

VII. 

Indifferently  turning  his  glance, 

Alfred  Vargrave  encountered  that 
gaze  unaware. 

O'er  a  bodice  snow-white  streamed 
her  soft  dusky  hair  ; 

A  rose-bud  half  blown  in  her  hand  ; 
in  her  eyes 

A  half-pensive  smile, 

A  sharp  cry  of  surprise 

Escaped  from  his  lips  :  some  un- 
known agitation. 

An  invincible  trouble,  a  strange  pal- 
pitation, 
sedl 
wit 

Overtook,  and  entangled,  and  para- 
lyzed it. 

That  wit  so  complacent  and  docile, 
that  ever 

Lightly  came  at  the  call  of  the  light- 
est endeavor, 

Ready  coined,  and  availably  current 
as  gold. 

Which,  secure  of  its  value,  so  flu- 
ently rolled 

In  free  circulation  from  hand  on  to 
hand 

For  the  usage  of  all,  at  a  moment's 
command  ; 

For  once  it  rebelled,  it  was  mute 
and  unstirred. 

And  he  looked  at  Lucile  without 
speaking  a  word. 

VIII. 

Perhaps  what  so  troubleu  him  was, 

that  the  face 
On  whose  features  he  gazed  had  no 

more  than  a  trace 
Of  the  face  his  remembrance   had 

imaged  for  years. 
Yes  !  the  face  he  remembered  was 

faded  with  tears  : 


WVTLS. 


35 


Grief  had  famished  the  figure,  and 
dimmed  the  dark  eyes, 

And  starved  the  pale  lips,  too  ac- 
quainted with  sighs. 

And  that  tender,  and  gracious,  and 
fond  coquetterie 

Of  a  woman  who  knows  her  least 
ribbon  to  be 

Something  dear  to  the  lips  that  so 
warmly  caress 

Every  sacred  detail  of  her  exquisite 
dress, 

In  the  careless  toilet  of  Lucile, — 
then  too  sad 

To  care  aught  to  her  changeable 
beauty  to  add, — 

Lord  Alfred  had  never  admired  be- 
fore ! 

Alas  !  poor  Lucile,  in  those  weak 
days  of  yore. 

Had  neglected  herself,  never  heed- 
ing, nor  thinking 

(AVliile  the  blossom  and  bloom  of  her 
beauty  were  shrinking) 

That  sorrow  can  beautify  only  the 
heart — 

Not  the  face — of  a  woman  ;  and  can 
but  impart 

Its  endearment  to  one  that  has  suf- 
fered.    In  truth 

Grief  hath  beauty  for  grief  ;  hut  gay 
youth  loves  gay  youth. 


IX. 


The  woman  that  now  met,  unshrink- 
ing, his  gaze. 

Seemed  to  bask  in  the  silent  but 
sumptuous  haze 

Of  that  soft  second  summer,  more 
ripe  than  the  first, 

Which  returns  when  the  bud  to  the 
blossom  hath  burst 

In  despite  of  the  stormiest  April. 
Lucile 

Had  acquired  that  matchless  uncon- 
scious appeal 

To  the  homage  which  none  but  a 
churl  would  witlihold — 

That  caressing  and  exquisite  grace — 
never  bold, 


Ever  present — which  just  a  few  wo- 
men possess. 

From  a  healthful  repose,  undisturbed 
by  the  stress 

Of  unquiet  emotions,  her  soft  cheek 
had  drawn 

A  freshness  as  pure  as  the  twilight 
of  dawn. 

Her  figure,  though  slight,  had  re- 
vived everywhere 

The  luxurious  proportions  of  youtli ; 
and  her  hair — 

Once  shorn  as  an  offering  to  pas- 
sionate love — 

Now  floated  or  rested  redundant 
above 

Her  airy  pure  forhead  and  throat ; 
gathered  loose 

Under  which,  by  one  violet  knot,  the 
profuse 

Milk-white  folds  of  a  cool  modest 
garment  reposed, 

Ril3pled  faint  by  the  breast  they  half 
hid,  half  disclosed. 

And  her  simple  attire  thus  in  all 
things  revealed 

The  fine  art  which  so  artfully  all 
things  concealed. 


Lord  Alfred,  who  never  conceived 

that  Lucile 
Could  have  looked  so  enchanting, 

felt  tempted  to  kneel 
At  her  feet,  and  her  pardon  with 

passion  implore  : 
But  the  calm  smile  that  met  him 

sufficed  to  restore 
The  pride  and  the  bitterness  needed 

to  meet 
The  occasion  with  dignity  due  and 

discreet. 

XI. 

"  Madam,"— thus  he  began  with  a 
voice  reassured, — 

"You  see  that  your  latest  command 
has  secured 

My  immediate  obedience, — presum- 
ing I  may 

Consider  my  freedom  restored  from 
this  day." — 


3«> 


lUCTLE. 


*'  I  had  thought,"  said  Lucile,  with 
a  smile  gay  yet  sad, 

"  That  your  freedom  from  me  not  a 
fetter  has  had. 

Indeed  ! ...  in  my  chains  have  you 
rested  till  now  ? 

I  had  not  so  flattered  myself,  I 
avow  ! " 

'•  For  Heaven's  sake,  Madam,"  Lord 
Alfred  replied, 

*'  Do  not  jest  !  has  the  moment  no 
sadness  ?  "  he  sighed. 

"  'Tis  an  ancient  tradition,"  she  an- 
swered, "  a  tale 

Often  told,— a  position  too  sure  to 
prevail 

In  the  end  of  all  legends  of  love.  If 
we  wrote, 

When  we  first  love,  foreseeing  that 
hour  yet  remote. 

Wherein  of  necessity  each  would  re- 
call 

From  the  other  the  poor  foolish- 
records  of  all 

Those  emotions,  whose  pain,  when 
recorded,  seemed  blis?, 

Should  we  write  as  we  wrote  ?  But 
one  thinks  not  of  this  ! 

At  Twenty  ( who  does  not  atTwenty  ?) 
we  write 

Believing  eternal  the  frail  vows  we 
plight  ; 

And  we  smile  with  a  confident  pity, 
above 

The  vulgar  results  of  all  poor  human 
love  : 

For  we  deem,  with  that  vanity  com- 
mon to  youth, 

Because  what  we  feel  in  orn*  bosoms, 
in  truth. 

Is  novel  to  us — that  'tis  novel  to 
earth, 

And  will  prove  the  exception,  in 
durance  and  worth. 

To  the  great  law  to  which  all  on 
earth  must  incline. 

The  error  was  noble,  the  vanity  fine ! 

Shall  we  blame  it  because  we  sur- 
vive it  ?  ah,  no  ; 

'Twas  the  youth  of  our  youth,  my 
lord,  is  it  not  so  ?  " 


Lord  Alfred  was  mute.  He  remem- 
bered her  yet 

A  child, — the  weak  sport  of  each 
moment's  regret, 

Blindly  yielding  herself  to  the  errors 
of  life. 

The  deceptions  of  youth,  and  borne 
down  by  ihe  strife 

And  the  tumult  of  passion ;  the  trem- 
ulous toy 

Of  -each  transient  emotion  of  grief  or 
of  joy. 

But  to  watch  her  pronounce  the 
death-w^arrant  of  all 

The  illusions  of  life, — lift,  unflinch- 
ing, the  pall 

From  the  bier  of  the  dead  Past,— 
that  woman  so  fair, 

And  so  young,  yet  her  own  self-sur- 
vivor; who  there 

Traced  her  life's  epitaph  with  a  finger 
so  cold ! 

'Twas  a  picture  that  pained  his  self- 
love  to  behold. 

He  himself  knew — none  better — the 
things  to  be  said 

Upon  subjects  like  this.  Yet  he 
bowed  down  his  head: 

And  as  thus,  with  a  trouble  he  could 
not  command. 

He  paused,  crumpling  the  letters  he 
held  in  his  hanxl, 

"You  know  me  enough,"  she  con- 
tinued, "or  what 

I  would  say  is,  you  yet  recollect  (do 
you  not,  [to  know 

Lord  Alfred  ?)  enough  of  my  nature. 

That  these  pledges  of  what  was  per- 
haps long  ago 

A  foolish  affection,  I  do  not  recall 

From  those  motives  of  prudence 
which  actuate  all 

Or  most  women  when  their  love 
ceases.     Indeed, 

If  you  have  such  a  doubt,  to  dispel  it 
I  need 

But  remind  you  that  ten  years  these 
letters  have  rested 

Unreclaimed  in  your  hands."  A  re- 
proach seemed  suggested 


tUCILE. 


37 


By  these  words.     To  meet  it,  Lord 

Alfred  looked  up. 
(His  gaze  had  been  fixed  on  a  blue 

Sevres  cup 
With  a  look  of  profound  connoisseur- 
ship, — a  smile 
Of  singular  interest  and  care,  all  this 

while.) 
He  Ico^ed  up,  and  looked  long  in  the 

face  of  Lucile, 
To  mark  if  that  face  by  a  sign  would 

reveal 
At  the  thought  of  Miss  Darcy  the 

least  jealous  pain. 
He  looked  keenly  and  long,  yet  he 

looked  there  in  vain. 
'•'You    are  generous,   Madam,"   he 

murmured  at  last. 
And    into    his  voice  a  light  irony 

passed. 
He  had  looked  lor  reproaches,  and 

fully  ar.  inged 
His    forces.      Bu     straightway    the 

enemy  changed 
The  position. 

XIII. 

.    "  Come !  ■ '  gayly  Lucile  interposed, 
"With  a  smile  whose  divinely  deep 

sweetness  disclosed 
Some  depth  in  her  nature  he  never 

had  known, 
Wliile    she  tenderly  laid  her  light 

hand  on  his  own, 
"  Do  not  think  I  abuse  the  occasion. 

We  gain 
Justice,    judgment,   with    years,   or 

else  years  are  in  vain. 
From  me  not  a  single  reproach  can 

you  hear. 
I  have    sinned  to  myself,— to   the 

world, — nay,  I  fear 
To  you  chiefly.     The   woman  who 

loves  should,  indeed. 
Be  the  friend  of  the  man  that  she 

loves.     She  should  heed 
Not  her  selfish  and  often  mistaken 

desires. 
But  his  interest  whose  fate  her  own 

interest  inspires ; 
And,  rather  than  seek  to  allure,  for 

her  sake, 


His  life  down  the  turbulent,  fanciful 
wake  [art 

Of  impossible  destinies,  use  all  her 

That  his  place  in  the  world  find  its 
place  in  her  heart. 

I,  alas! — I  perceived  not  this  truth 
till  too  late ; 

I  tormented  your  youth,  I  have  dark- 
ened your  fate. 

Forgive  me  the  ill  I  have  done  for 
the  sake 

Of  its  long  expiation!" 

XIV. 

Lord  Alfred,  awake, 

Seemed  to  wander  from  dream  on  to 
dream.     In  that  seat 

Where  he  sat  as  a  criminal,  ready  to 
meet 

His  accuser,  he  found  himself  turned 
by  some  change, 

As  surprising  and  all  unexpected  as 
strange, 

To  the  judge  from  whose  mercy  in- 
dulgence was  sought. 

All  the  world's  foolish  pride  in  that 
moment  was  naught ; 

He  felt  all  his  plausible  theories 
posed ; 

And,  thrilled  by  the  beauty  of  nature 
disclosed 

In  the  pathos  of  all  he  had  witnessed, 
his  head 

He  bowed,  and  faint  words  self-re- 
proachfully  said. 

As  he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips. 
'Twas  a  hand 

White,  delicate,  dimpled,  warm,  lan- 
guid, and  bland. 

The  hand  of  a  woman  is  often,  in 
youth. 

Somewhat  rough,  somewhat  red, 
somewhat  graceless,  in  truth ; 

Does  its  beauty  refine,  as  its  pulses 
grow  calm. 

Or  as  Sorrow  has  crossed  the  life- 
line in  the  palm  ? 

XV. 

The  more  that  he  looked,  that  he 

listened,  the  more 
He  discovered  perfections  unnoticed 

before. 


3B 


LUCILE, 


Less  salient  than  once,  less  poetic, 

perchance, 
This  woman  who  thus  had  survived 

the  romance 
That  had  made  him  its  hero,  and 

breathed  him  its  sighs. 
Seemed  more  charming  a  thousand 

times  o'er  to  his  eyes. 
Together  they  talked   of  the  years 

since  when  last 
They  parted,  contrasting  the  present, 

the  past. 
Yet  no  memory  marred  their  light 

converse.    Lucile 
Questioned  much,  with  the  interest 

a  sister  might  feel. 
Of  Lord  Alfred's  new  life,— of  Miss 

Darcy, — her  face, 
Her    temper,     accomplishments,  — 

pausing  to  trace 
The  advantage  derived  from  a  hymen 

so  fit. 
Of  herself,  she  recounted  wdth  humor 

and  wit 
Her    journeys,    her    daily    employ- 
ments, the  lands 
She  had  seen,  and  the  books  she  had 

read,  and  the  hands 
She  had  shaken. 

In  all  that  she  said  there  appeared 
An  amiable  irony.     Laughing,  she 

reared 
The  temple  of  reason,  with  ever  a 

touch 
Of  light  scorn  at  her  work,  revealed 

only  so  much 
As  there  gleams,  in  the  thyrsus  tkat 

Bacchanals  bear. 
Through  the  blooms  of  a  garland  the 

point  of  a  spear. 
But  above,  and  beneath,  and  beyond 

all  of  this. 
To  that  soul,  whose  experience  had 

paralyzed  bliss, 
A  benignant  indulgence,  to  all  things 

resigned,  [mind, 

A  justice,  a  sweetness,  a  meekness  of 
Gave  a  luminous  beauty,  as  tender 

and  faint 
And  serene  as  the  halo  ench'cling  a 

saint. 


XVI. 

Unobserved  by  Lord  Alfred  the  time 

fleeted  by. 
To  each  novel  sensation  spontane- 
ously 
He    abandoned    himself    with  that 

ardor  so  strange 
Which  belongs  to  a  mind  grown  ac- 
customed to  change. 
He  sought,  with  well-j)ractised  and 

delicate  art. 
To  surprise  from  Lucile  the  true  state 

of  her  heart ; 
But  his  efforts  weie  vain,  and  the 

woman,  as  ever, 
More  adroit  than  the  man,  baffled 

every  endeavor. 
When  he  deemed  he  had  touched  on 

some  chord  in  her  being, 
At  the  touch  it  dissolved,  and  was 

gone.     Ever  fleeing 
As  ever  he  near  it  advanced,  when  he 

thought 
To  have  seized,   and  x>roceeded  to 

analyze  aught 
Of  the  moral  existence,  the  absolute 

soul. 
Light  as  vapor  the  phantom  escaped 

his  control. 

XVII. 

From  the  hall,  on  a  sudden,  a  sharp 
ring  was  heard. 

In  the  passage  without  a  quick  foot- 
step there  stirred. 

At  the  door  knocked   the  negress, 
and  thrust  in  her  head, 

''  The  Duke  de  Luvois  had  just  en- 
tered," she  said, 

''  And  insisted  " — 
"The   Duke  J"   cried  Lucile   (as 
she  spoke 

The  Duke's    step,    approaching,    a 
light  echo  woke). 

"  Say  I  do  not  receive  till  the  even- 
ing.    Explain," 

As  she  glanced  at  Lord  Alfred,  she 
added  again, 

"  I  have  business  of  private  impor- 
tance." 


LUCILE. 


39 


There  came 
O'er  Lord  Alfred  at  once,   at  the 

sound  of  that  name, 
An  invincible  sense  of  vexation.  He 

turned 
To  Lncile,  and  he  fancied  he  faintly 

discerned 
On   her  face  an  indefinite  look  of 

confusion. 
On  his  mind  instantaneously  flashed 

the  conclusion, 
That  his  i^resence  had  cause  it. 

He  said,  with  a  sneer 
Which  he  could  not  repress,  "  Let 

not  me  interfere 
With  the  claims  on  your  time,  lady  ! 

when  you  are  free 
From  more  pleasant  engagements, 

allow  me  to  see 
And  to  wait  on  you  later." 

The  words  were  not  said 
Ere  he  wished  to  recall  them.     He 

bitterly  read 
The  mistake  he  had  made  in  Lucile's 

flashing  eye. 
Inclining  her  head,  as  in  haughty 

reply. 
More  reproachful  perchance  than  all 

uttered  rebuke, 
She  said  merely,  resimiing  her  seat, 

"  Tell  the  Duke 
He  may  enter." 
And  vexed  with  his  own   words 

and  hers, 
Alfred  Vargrave  bowed  low  to  Lucile 

de  Nevers, 
Passed  the  casement  and  entered  the 

garden.     Before 
His  shadow  was  fled  the  Duke  stood 

at  the  door. 

XVIII. 

When  left  to  his  thoughts  in  the 

garden  alone, 
Alfred  Vargrave  stood,   strange  to 

himself.     With  dull  tone 
Of  importance,  through  cities  of  rose 

and  carnation, 
Went  the  bee  on  his  business  from 

station  to  station. 
The  minute  mirth  of  simamer  was 

shrill  all  around  \ 


Its  incessant  small  voices  like  stings 
seemed  to  sound 

On  his  sore  angry  sense.     He  stood 
grieving  the  hot 

Solid  sun  with  his  shadow,  nor  stir- 
red from  the  spot. 

The  last  look  of  Lucile  still  bewilder- 
ed, perplexed. 

And  reproached  him.     The  Duke's 
visit  goaded  and  vexed. 

He  had  not  yet  given  the  letters. 
Again 

He  must  visit  Lucile.     He  resolved 
to  remain 

Where  he  was  till  the  Duke  went. 
In  short,  he  would  stay, 

Were  it  only  to  know  when  the  Duke 
went  away. 

But  just  as  he  formed  this  resolve, 
he  perceived 

Approaching  towards  him,  between 
the  thick-leaved 

And  luxuriant  laurels,   Lucile  and 
the  Duke. 

Thus  surprised,  his  first  thought  was 
to  seek  for  some  nook 

Whence  he  might,  unobserved,  from 
the  garden  retreat. 

They  had  not  yet  seen  him.     The 
somid  of  their  feet 

And  their  voices  had  warned  him  in 
time.     They  were  walking 

Towards  him.      The  Duke  (a  true 
Frenchman)  was  talking 

With  the  action  of  Talma.     He  saw 
at  a  glance 

That  they  barred  the  sole  path  to  the 
gateway.     No  chance 

Of  escape  save  in  instant  conceal- 
ment !    Deep-dipped 

In  thick  foliage,  an  arbor  stood  near. 
In  he  slipped, 

Saved  from  sight,  as  in  front  of  that 
ambush  they  passed, 

Still  conversing.     Beneath  a  labur- 
num at  last 

They  paused,   and  sat  down  on  a 
bench  in  the  shade. 

So  close  that  he  could  not  but  heaj 
what  they  said. 


40 


LUCILB. 


XIX. 

LUCILE. 

Duke,  I  scarcely  conceive  .  .  . 
Luvois. 
Ah,  forgive  ! .  .  .  I  desired 
So  deeply  to  see  you  to-day.    You 

retired 
So  early  last  night  from  the  ball  .  .  . 

this  whole  week 
I  have  seen  you  pale,  silent,  preoc- 
cupied .  .  .  speak, 
Speak,  Lucile,  and  forgive  me  ! .  .  . 

I  know  that  I  am 
A  rash  fool— hut  I  love  you  !   I  love 

you,  Madame, 
More  than  language  can  say  I    Do 

not  deem,  O  Lucile, 
That   the    love    I    no    longer  have 

strength  to  conceal 
Is  a  passing  caprice  !    It  is  strange 

to  my  nature. 
It  has  made  me,  unknown  to  myself, 

a  new  creature. 
I  implore  you  to  sanction  and  save 

the  new  life 
Which  I  lay  at  your  feet  with  this 

prayer — Be  my  wife  ; 
Stoop,  and  raise  me  I 

Lord  Alfred  could  scarcely  restrain 
The  sudden,  acute  pang  of  anger  and 

pain 
With  which  he  had  heard  this.     As 

though  to  some  wind 
The  leaves  of  the  hushed  windless 

laurels  behind 
The  two  thus  in  converse  were  sud- 
denly stirred. 
The  soimd  half  betrayed  him.    They 

started.     He  heard 
The  low  voice  of  Lucile  ;   but  so 

faint  was  its  tone 
That  her  answer  escaped  him. 

Luvois  hurried  on, 
As  though    in    remonstrance    with 

what  had  been  spoken. 
"  Nay,  I  know  it,  Lucile  !  but  your 

heart  was  not  broken 
By  the  trial  in  which  all  its  fibres 

were  proved, 


Love,  perchance,  you  mistrust,  yet 

you  need  to  be  loved. 
You  mistake  yoiu*  own  feelings.     I 

fear  you  mistake 
What  so  ill  I  interpret,  those  feelings 

which  make 
Words  like  these  vague  and  feeble. 

Whatever  your  heart 
May  have  suffered  of  yore,  this  can 

only  impart 
A  pity  profound  to  the  lovo  which  I 

feel. 
Hush  !  hush  !  I  know  all.    Tell  me 

nothing,  Lucile." 
"  You  know  all,  Duke  ?  "  she  said  ; 
"  well  then,  know  that,  in  truth, 
I  have  learned  from  the  rude  lesson 

taught  to  my  youth 
From  my  own  heart  to  shellcr  my 

life  ;  to  mistrust 
The  heart  of  another.     We  are  v/hat 

we  must, 
And  not  what  we  would  be.     1  ]inow 

that  one  hour 
Assures  not  another.     The  will  and 

the  power 
Are  diverse." 

"  O  madam  1 "  he  answered,  *'  you 

fence 
With  a  feeling  you  know  to  be  true 

and  intense. 
'Tis  not  my  life,  Lucile,  that  I  plead 

for  alone  : 
If  your  nature  I  know,  'tis  no  less 

for  your  o^vn. 
That  nature  will  prey  on  itself  ;  it 

was  made 
To  influence  others.     Consider,"  he 

said, 
"  That  genius  craves  power,— what 

scope  for  it  here  ? 
Gifts  less  noble  to  me  give  command 

of  that  sphere 
In  which  genius  is  power.      Such 

gifts  you  despise  ? 
But  you  do  not  disdain  what  such 

gifts  realize  I 
I  offer  you.  Lady,  a  name  not  un- 
known— 
A  fortune  which  worthless,  without 

you,  is  grown— 


LUCILE, 


41 


An  my  life  at  your  feet  I  lay  down— 

at  your  feet 
A    heart  which  for    you,   and  you 

only,  c?Ji  beat." 

LUCILE. 

That  heart,  Duke,  that  life — I  re- 
spect both.     The  name 

And  position  you  offer,  and  all  that 
you  claim 

In  behalf  of  their  nobler  employ- 
ment, I  feel 

To  deserve  what,  in  turn,  I  now  ask 
you — 

Lm^ois. 
Lucile ! 

LUCILE. 

I  ask  you  to  leave  me — 

LUYOIS. 

You  do  not  reject  ? 
Lucile. 
I  ask  you  to  leave  me  the  time  to  re- 
flect. 

Luvois. 
You  ask  me  ?— 

Lucile. 

— The  time  to  reflect. 
Luvois. 

Say — One  word ! 
May  I  hope  ? 

The  reply  of  Lucile  was  not  heard 
By  Lord  Alfred;  for  just  then  she 

rose,  and  moved  on. 
The  Duke  bowed  his  lips  o'er  her 
hand,  and  was  gone. 

XX. 

Not  a  sound  save  the  birds  in  the 
bushes.     And  when 

Alfred  Vargrave  reeled  forth  to  the 
simlight  again, 

He  just  saw  the  white  robe  of  the 
woman  recede 

As  she  entered  the  house. 

Scarcely  conscious  indeed 

Of  his  steps,  he  too  followed,  and  en- 
tered, 


XXI. 

He  entered 
Unnoticed ;  Lucile  never  stirred :  so 

concentred 
And  wholly  absorbed  in  her  thoughts 

she  appeared. 
Her  back  to  the  window  was  turned. 

As  he  neared 
The  sofa,  her  face  from  the  glass  was 

reflected. 
Her  dark    eyes   were    fixed   on  the 

ground.     Pale,  dejected. 
And  lost  in  profound  meditation  she 

seemed. 
Softly,   silently,   over    her    drooped 

shoulders  streamed 
The  afternoon  smilight.    The  cry  of 

alarm 
And  surprise  which  escaped  her,  as 

now  on  her  arm 
Alfred  Vargrave  let  fall  a  hand  icily 

cold  [told 

And  clammy  as  death,  all  too  cruelly 
How  far  he    had    been    from    her 

thoughts. 

XXII. 

All  his  cheek 
Was  disturbed  with  the  effort  it  cost 

him  to  speak. 
"  It  was  not  my  fault.     I  have  heard 

all,"  he  said. 
*'Now    the     letters — and    farewell, 

Lucile  1    When  you  wed 
May—" 
The  sentence  broke  short,  like  a 

weapon  that  snaps 
When  the  weight  of  a  man  is  upon 

it. 

'*  Perhaps," 
Said  Lucile  (her  sole  answer  revealed 

in  the  flush 
Of  quick  color  which  up  to  her  brows 

seemed  to  rush 
In  reply  to  those  few  broken  words), 

"this  farewell 
Is  our  last,  Alfred  Vargrave.  in  life. 

Who  can  tell  ? 
Let  us  part  without  bitterness.  Hero 

are  your  letters. 
Be  assured  I  retain  you  uo  more  iii 

my  fetters  I "~ 


42 


LUCTLE, 


She  laughed,  as  she  said  this,  a  little 
sad  laugh, 

And  stretched  out  her  hand  with  the 
letters.     And  half 

Wroth  to  feel  his  wrath  rise,  and 
unable  to  trust 

His  own  powers  of  restraint,  in  his 
bosom  he  thrust 

The  packet  she  gave,  with  a  short 
angry  sigh, 

Bowed  his  head,  and  departed  with- 
out a  reply. 


And  Lucile  was  alone.    And  the  men 

of  the  world 
Were  gone  back  to  the  world.    And 

the  world's  self  was  furled 
Far   away  from  the    heart  of    the 

woman.    Her  hand 
Drooped,  and  from  it,  unloosed  from 

their  frail  silken  band, 
Fell  those  early  love-letters,  strcAvn, 

scattered,  and  shed 
At   her   feet — life's    lost   blossoms  I 

Dejected,  her  head 
On  her  bosom  was  bowed.     Her  gaze 

vaguely  strayed  o'er 
Those  strewn  records  of  passionate 

moments  no  more. 
From  each  page  to  her  sight  leapt 

some  word  that  belied 
The  composure  with  which  she  that 

day  had  denied 
Every  claim  on  her  heart  to  those 

poor  perished  years. 
They  avenged  themselves  now,  and 

8he  burst  into  tears. 


CANTO  IV. 


Letter  from  Cousin  John  to  Cousin 
Alfeed. 

*•  BiGOKBH,  Thursday. 
"  Time  up,  you  rascal !    Come  back, 

or  be  hanged. 
Matilda  grows  peevish.    Her  mother 

harangued 


For  a  whole  hoiu*  this  morning  about 
you.     The  deuce ! 

What  on  earth  can  I  say  to  you  ? — 
Nothing's  of  use. 

And  the  blame  of  the  whole  of  your 
shocking  behavior 

Falls  on  me,  sir!     Come  back, — do 
you  hear  ? — or  I  leave  your 

Affairs,    and    abjure    you    forever. 
Come  back 

To  your  anxious  betrothed ;  and  per- 
plexed 

"Cousin  Jack." 


Alfred  needed,  in  truth,  no  entreaties 

from  John 
To  increase  his    impatience  to  fly 

from  Serchon. 
All  the  place  was  now  fraught  with 

sensations  of  pain 
Which,  whilst  in  it,  he  strove  to  es- 
cape from  in  vain, 
A  wild  instinct  warned  him  to  fly 

from  a  place 
Where  he  felt  that  some  fatal  event, 

swift  of  pace. 
Was  approaching  his  life.     In  despite 

his  endeavor 
To  think  of  Matilda,  her  image  for- 
ever 
Was  effaced  from  his  fancy  by  that  of 

Lucile. 
From  the  ground  which  he  stood  on 

he  felt  himself  reel. 
Scared,  alarmed  by  those  feelings  to 

which,  on  the  day 
Just  before,  all  his  heart  had  so  soon 

given  way, 
When  he  caught,  with  a  strange  sense 

of  fear,  for  assistance, 
At  what  was,  till  then,  the  great  fact 

in  existence, 
'Twas  a  phantom  he  grasped. 

ni. 

Having  sent  for  his  guide. 
He  ordered  his  horse,  and  determined 

to  ride 
Back  forthwith  to  Bigorre. 


LUCILE. 


43 


Then,  the  guide,  who  well  knew 

Every  haiint  of  those  hills,  said  the 
wild  lake  of  Oo 

Lay  a  league  from  Serchon ;  and  sug- 
gested a  track 

By  the  lake  to  Bigorre,  which,  trans- 
versing  the  back 

Of  the  mounlain,  avoided  a  circuit 
between 

Two  long  valleys  ;  and  thinking, 
"  Perchance  change  of  scene 

May  create  change  of  thought,"  Al- 
fred Vargrave  agreed, 

Mounted  horse,  and  set  forth  to  Bi- 
gorre at  full  speed. 

IT. 

His  guide  rode  beside  him. 

The  king  of  the  guides ! 
The  gallant  Bernard !  ever  boldly  he 

rides, 
Ever  gayly  he  sings!    For   io  him, 

from  of  old, 
The  hills  have  confided  their  secrets, 

and  told 
TVTiere  the  Avhite  partridge  lies,  and 

the  cock  o'  the  woods ; 
Wliere  the  izard  flits  fine  through  the 

cold  solitudes  ; 
Where  the  bear  lurks  perdu;  and  the 

lynx  on  his  prey 
At    nightfall    descends,   when    the 

mountains  are  gray; 
Where  the  sassafras  blooms,  and  the 

bluebell  is  born. 
And   the    wild    rhododendron    first 

reddens  at  morn  ; 
Wliere  the  source  of  the  waters  is 

fine  as  a  thread  ; 
How  the  storm  on  the  wild   Mala- 

detta  is  spread  ; 
Where  the  thunder  is  hoarded,  the 

snows  lie  asleep, 
Wlience  the  torrents  are  fed,  and  the 

cataracts  leap  ; 
And,  familiarly  known  in  the  ham- 
lets, the  vales 
Have  whispered  to  him    all    their 

thousand  love-tales  ; 
He  has  laughed  with  the  girls,  he 

has  leaped  with  the  boys  ; 


Ever  blithe,  ever  bold,  ever  boon,  he 

enjoys 

An  existence  untroubled  by  envy  or 
strife. 

While  he  feeds  on  the  dews  and  the 
juices  of  life. 

And  so  lightly  he  sings,  and  so  gay- 
ly he  rides. 

For  Bernard  le  Sauteur  is  the 
king  of  all  guides  ! 

V. 

But  Bernard  found,  that  day,  neither 
song  nor  love-tale, 

Nor  adventure,  nor  laughter,  nor 
legend  avail 

To  arouse  from  his  deep  and  pro- 
found reverie 

Him  that  silent  beside  him  rode  fast 
as  could  be. 

VI. 

Ascending  the  moimtain  they  slack- 
ened their  pace, 

And  the  marvellous  prospect  each 
moment  changed  face. 

The  breezy  and  pure  inspirations  of 
morn 

Breathed  about  them.  The  scarped 
ravaged  mountains,  all  worn 

By  the  torrents,  whose  course  they 
watched  faintly  meander. 

Were  alive  with  the  diamonded  shy 
salamander. 

They  paused  o'er  the  bosom  of  pur- 
ple abysses. 

And  wound  through  a  region  oi 
green  wildernesses  ; 

The  waters  went  wirbling  above  and 
aroimd. 

The  forests  hung  heaped  in  their 
shadows  profotmd. 

Here  the  Larboust,  and  there  Aven- 
tin,  Castellon, 

Which  the  Demon  of  Tempest,  de- 
scending upon. 

Had  wasted  with  fire,  and  the  peace- 
ful Cazeaux 

They  marked  ;  and  far  down  in  the 
simshine  below. 

Half  dipped  in  a  valley  of  aiiiest 
blue, 


44 


LUCILE. 


The  white  happy  homes  of  the  vil- 
lage of  Oo, 

Where  the  age  is  yet  golden. 

And  high  overhead 

The  wrecks  of  the  combat  of  Titans 
were  spread. 

Red  granite  and  quartz,  in  the  alche- 
mic Sim, 

Fused  their  splendors  of  crimson  and 
crystal  in  one  ; 

And  deep  in  the  moss  gleamed  the 
delicate  shells, 

And  the  dew  lingered  fresh  in  the 
heavy  harebells  ; 

The  large  violet  biu-ned  ;  the  cam- 
panula blue  ; 

And  Autumn's  own  flower,  the  saf- 
fron, peered  through 

The  red-berried  brambles  and  thick 
sassafras  ; 

And  fragrant  with  thyme  was  the 
delicate  grass  ; 

And  high  up,  and  higher,  and  high- 
est of  all. 

The  secular  phantom  of  snow  ! 

O'er  the  wall 

Of  a  gray  sunless  glen  gaping  drowsy 
below, 

That  aerial  spectre,  revealed  in  the 
glow 

Of  the  great  golden  dawn,  hovers 
faint  on  the  eye. 

And  appears  to  grow  in,  and  grow 
out  of,  the  sky, 

And  plays  with  the  fancy,  and  baf- 
fles the  sight. 

Only  reached  by  the  vast  rosy  ripple 
of  light, 

And  the  cool  star  of  eve,  the  Im- 
perial Thing, 

Half  unreal,  like  some  mythological 
king 

That  dominates  all  in  a  fable  of  old. 

Takes  command  of  a  valley  as  fair 
to  behold 

As  aught  in  old  fables  ;  and,  seen  or 
unseen, 

Dwells  aloof  over  all,  in  the  vast  and 
serene 

Sacred  sky,  where  the  footsteps  of 
gpirite  are  furled 


'Mid    the    clouds     beyond     which        I 
spreads  the  infinite  world 

Of  man's  last  aspirations,  uufathom-        ! 
ed,  mitrod, 

Save  by  Even  and  Mom,  and  the 

angels  of  God.  | 

VIT.  1 

Meanwhile,  as  they  journeyed,  that 
serpentine  road. 

Now  abruptly   reversed,    unexpect- 
edly showed 

A  gay  cavalcade  some  few  feet  in 
advance. 

Alfred   Vargrave's  heart  beat  ;  for 
he  saw  at  a  glance 

The  slight  form   of  Lucile  in   the 

midst.     His  next  look  J 

Showed  him,  joyously  ambling  be-      | 
side  her,  the  Duke.  ^ 

The  rest  of  the  troop  which  had  thus 
caught  his  ken 

He  knew  not,   nor  noticed    them, 
(women  and  men). 

They  were  laughing  and  talking  to- 
gether.    Soon  after 

His  sudden  appearance    suspended 
their  laughter. 

VIII. 

"  You  here  ! .  .  .  I  imagined  you  far 

on  your  way 
To    Bigorre  ! "  .   .   .  .  said   Lucile. 
*'  Wliat  has  caused  you  to  stay  ?  " 
''I  am,  on  my  way  to  Bigorre,"  he 

replied, 
*'  But,  since  my  way  would  seem  to 

be  your»,  let  me  ride 
For  one  moment  beside  you."     And 

then,  with  a  stoop, 
At  her  ear,  .  .  .  **  and  forgive  me  ! " 

IX. 

By  this  time  the  troop 
Had  regathered  its  numbers. 

Lucile  was  as  pale 
As  the  cloud  'neath  their  feet,  on  its 

way  to  the  vale. 
The  Duke  had  observed  it,  nor  quit- 
ted her  side, 
For  even  one  moment,  the  whole  of 
the  ri4e, 


LUCTLE. 


45 


Alfred  smiled,  as  he  thought,  "he 
is  jealous  of  her  !  " 

And  tlie  thought  of  this  jealousy  ad- 
ded a  spiu* 

To  his  firm  resolution  and  effort  to 
please. 

He  talked  much  ;  was  witty,  and 
quite  at  his  ease. 

X. 

After  noontide,  the  clouds,  which 
had  traversed  the  east 

Half  the  day,  gathered  closer,  and 
rose  and  increased. 

The  air  changed  and  chilled.  As 
though  out  of  the  ground, 

There  ran  "up  the  trees  a  confused 
hissing  soimd, 

And  the  wind  rose.  The  guides 
sniffed,  like  chamois,  the  air, 

And  looked  at  each  other,  and  halt- 
ed, and  there 

Unbuckled  tlie  cloaks  from  the  sad- 
dles.    The  white 

Aspens  rustled,  and  turned  up  their 
frail  leaves  in  fright. 

All  announced  the  approach  of  the 
tempest. 

Ere  long. 

Thick  darkness  descended  the  moun- 
tains among  ; 

And  a  vivid,  vindictive,  and  serpen- 
tine flash 

Gored  the  darkness,  and  shore  it 
across  with  a  gash. 

The  rain  fell  in  large  lieavy  drops. 
And  anon 

r.roke  the  thimder. 
The  horses  took  fright,  every  one. 

The  Duke's  in  a  moment  was  far  out 
of  sight. 

The  guides  whooped.  The  band  was 
obliged  to  alight  ; 

And,  dispersed  up  the  perilous  path- 
way, walked  blind 

To  the  darkness  before  from  the 
darkness  behind. 

XI. 

A.nd  the  Storm  is  abroad  in  the 
aiouotains  I 

He  fills 


The  crouched   liollows  and  all  the 

oracular  hills 
With  dread    voices    of   power.      A 

roused  million  or  more 
Of  wild  echoes  reluctantly  rise  from 

their  hoar 
Immemorial  ambush,  and  roll  in  the 

wake 
Of  the  cloud,  whose  reflection  leaves 

vivid  the  lake. 
And  the  wind,  that  wild  robber,  for 

plunder  descends 
From  invisible  lands,  o'er  those  black 

mountain  ends; 
He  howls  as  he  hounds  down  his 

prey;  and  his  lash 
Tears  the  hair  of  the  timorous  wan 

mountain-ash. 
That  clings  to  the  rocks,  with  her 

garments  all  torn, 
Like  a  woman  in  fear;  then  he  blows 

liis  hoarse  horn, 
And  is  off,  the  fierce  guide  of  destruc- 
tion and  terror. 
Up  the  desolate  heights,  'mid 

tricate  error 
Of  mountain  and  mist. 


xn. 

There  is  war  in  the  skies  I 

Lo!  the  black-winged  legions  of  tem- 
pest arise 

O'er  those   sharp   splintered    rocks 
that  are  gleaming  below 

In  the  soft  liglit,  so  fair  and  so  fatal, 
as  though 

Some  seraph  burned  through  them 
the  thunder-bolt  searcliing 

Wliich  the  black  cloud  unbosomed 
just  now.     Lo!  the  lurching 

And  shivering  pine-trees,  like  phan- 
toms, that  seem 

To  waver  above,  in  the  dark;  and 
yon  stream. 

How  it  hurries  and  roars,  on  its  way 
to  the  white 

And  paralyzed  lake  there,  appalled 
at  the  sight 

Oi  the  things  seen  in  he:iyeul 


46 


LUCJLE. 


xrn. 


Through  the  darkness  and  awe 

That  had  gathered  around  him,  Lord 
Alfred  now  saw, 

Eevealed  in  the  fierce  and  evanishing 
glare 

Of    the    lightning    that    momently- 
pulsed  through  the  air, 

A  woman  alone  on  a  shelf  of  the 
hill, 

With  her  cheek  coldly  propped  on 
her  hand, — and  as  still 

As  the  rock  that  she  sat  on,  which 
beetled  above 

The  black  lake  beneath  her. 

All  terror,  all  love, 

Added  speed   to  the  instinct  with 
which  he  rushed  on. 

For  one  moment  the  blue  lightning 
swathed  the  whole  stone 

In  its  lurid  embrace:  like  the  sleek 
dazzling  snake 

That  encircles  a  sorceress,  channed 
for  her  sake 

And  lulled  by  her  loveliness ;  fawn- 
ing, it  played 

And  caressingly  twined  round  the 
feet  and  the  head 

Of  the  woman  who  sat  there,  un- 
daunted and  calm 

As  the  soul  of  that  solitude,  listing 
the  psalm 

Of  the  plangent  and  laboring  tempest 
roll  slow 

From  the  caldron  of  midnight  and 
vapor  below. 

Next  moment  from  bastion  to  bas- 
tion, all  round. 

Of  the  siege-circled  mountains,  there 
tumbled  the  sound 

Of  the  battering  thunder's  indefinite 
peal, 

And  Lord  Alfred  had  sprung  to  the 
feet  of  Lucile. 

xrv. 

She  started.    Once  more,  with  its 

flickering  wand, 
The  lightning  approached  her.    In 

terror,  her  hand 


Alfred  Yargrave  had  seized  within 

his  ;  and  he  felt 
The  light  fingers  that  coldly  and  lin- 

geringly  dwelt 
In  the  grasp  of  his  own,  tremble 

faintly. 

"See!  see! 
Where  the  whirlwind  hath  stricken 

and  strangled  yon  tree! " 
She  exclaimed,  ..."  like  the  pas- 
sion that  brings  on  its  breath, 
To  the  being  it  embraces,  desiructiou 

and  death! 
Alfred  Vargrave,   the    lightning  is 

round  you!" 

"Lucile! 
I  hear — I  see — naught  but  yourself. 

I  can  feel 
Nothing  here  but  your  presence.    My 

pride  fights  in  vain 
With  the  truth  that  leaps  from  me. 

We  two  meet  again 
'Neath  yon  terrible  heaven  that  is 

watching  above 
To  avenge  if  I  lie  when  I  swear  that 

I  love, — 
xind  beneath  yonder  terrible  heaven, 

at  your  feet, 
I  humble  my  head  and  my  heart.    I 

entreat 
Tour  pardon,  Lucile,  for  the  past, — 

I  implore 
For  the  future  your  mercy, — implore 

it  with  more 
Of  passion  than  prayer  ever  breathed. 

By  the  power 
Which  invisibly  touches  us  both  in 

this  hour. 
By  the  rights  I  have  o'er  you,  Lucile, 

I  demand" — 

"  The  rights !"  .  .  .  said  Lucile,  and 
drew  from  him  her  hand. 

"Yes,  the  rights!  for  what  greater 

to  man  may  belong 
Than  the  right  to  repair  in  the  future 

the  wrong 
To  the  past  ?  and  the  wrong  I  have 

done  you,  of  yore, 
Hath  bequeathed  to  me  all  thei  sa<3 

right  to  restore, 


LUCIL2. 


47 


To  retrieve,  to  amend  !  I,  wlio  in- 
jured your  life, 

Urge  the  right  to  repair  it,  Lucile! 
Be  my  wife, 

My  guide,  my  good  angel,  my  all 
upon  earth, 

And  accept^  for  the  sake  of  what  yet 
may  give  worth 

To  my  life,  its  contrition  1" 

XV. 

He  paused,  for  there  came 

O'er  the  cheek  of  Lucile  a  swift  flush 
like  the  flame 

That  illumined  at  moments  the  dark- 
ness o'erhead. 

With  a  voice  faint  and  marred  by 
emotion,  she  said, 

*'  And  your  pledge  to  another  ?  " 

XVI. 

"Hush,  hush!"  he  exclaimed, 
"  My  honor  will  live  where  my  love 

lives,  unshamed. 
'Twere  poor  honor,  indeed,  to  another 

to  give 
That  life   of   which  you  keep  the 

heart.     Could  I  live 
In  the  light  of  those  young  eyes,  sup- 
pressing a  lie  ? 
Alas,  no !  your  hand  holds  my  whole 

destiny. 
I  can  never  recall  what  my  lips  have 

avowed ; 
In  your  love  lies  whatever  can  render 

me  proud. 
For  the  great  crime  of  aU  my  exist- 
ence hath  been 
To  have  known  you  in  vain.     And 

the  duty  best  seen. 
And  most  hallowed, — the  duty  most 

sacred  and  sweet, 
Is  that  which  hath  led  me,  Lucile,  to 

your  feet. 
O  speak !  and  restore  me  the  blessing 

I  lost 
When  I  lost  you, — my  pearl  of  all 

pearls  beyond  cost ! 
And  restore  to  your   own  life  its 

youth,  and  restore 
The  vision,  the  rapture,  the  passion 

of  yore! 


Ere  our  brows  had  been  dimmed  in 
the  dust  of  the  world, 

When  our  souls  their  w^hite  wings 
yet  exulting,  mif  urled  I 

For  your  eyes  rest  no  more  on  the 
miquiet  man, 

The  wild  star  of  whose  course  its  pale 
orbit  outran, 

WTaom  the  formless  indefinite  future 
of  youth. 

With  its  lying  allurements,  distract- 
ed.    In  truth 

I  have  wearily  wandered  the  world, 
and  I  feel 

That  the  least  of  your  lovely  regards, 
O  Lucile, 

Is  worth  all  the  world  can  afford,  and 
the  dream 

Which,  though  followed  forever,  for- 
ever doth  seem 

As  fleeting,  and  distant,  and  dim,  as 
of  yora 

When  it  brooded  in  twilight,  at  dawn, 
on  the  shore 

Of  life's  untraversed  ocean !  I  know 
the  sole  path 

To  repose,  which  my  desolate  destiny 
hath, 

Is  the  path  by  whose  course  to  your 
feet  I  return. 

And  who  else,  O  Lucile,  will  so  truly 
discern, 

And  so  deeply  revere,  all  the  passion- 
ate strength. 

The  sublimity  in  you,  as  he  whom  at 
length 

These  have  saved  from  himself,  for 
the  truth  they  reveal 

To  his  worship  ?" 

xvn. 

She  spoke  not  ;  but  Alfred  could 

feel 
The  light  hand  and  arm,  that  upon 

him  reposed. 
Thrill    and  tremble.      Those    dark 

eyes  of  hers  were  half  closed  \ 
But,  under  their  languid  mysterious 

fringe, 
A  passionate  softness  was  beaming 

One  tinge 


4B 


lUCILM. 


Of  faint  inward  fire  flushed  trans- 
parently tbroiigh 

The  delicate,  pallid,  and  pure  olive 
hue 

Of  the  cheek,  half  averted  and 
drooped.     The  rich  bosom 

Heaved,  as  when  in  the  heart  of  a 
ruffled  rose-blossom 

A  bee  is  imprisoned  and  struggles. 

xvin. 

Meanwhile 
The  sun,  in  his  setting,  sent  up  the 

last  smile 
Of  his  Dower,    to  bafl^e  the  storm. 

Aiid,  behold! 
O'er  the  mountains  emb?.ttled,   his 

armies,  all  gold. 
Rose  and  rested:  while   far  up  the 

dim  airy  crags, 
Its  artillery  silenced,  its  banners  in 

rags, 
The  rear  of  the  tempest  its  sullen  re- 
treat 
Drew  off  slowly,  receding  in  silence, 

gathering  afar, 
Had  already  sent  forward  one  bright, 

signal  star. 
The  curls  of  her  soft  and  luxuriant 

hair. 
From  the   dark    riding-hat,   which 

Lucile  used  to  v.ear. 
Had  escaped  ;  and  Lord  Alfred  now 

covered  with  kisses 
The  redolent  warmth  of  those  long 

falling  tresses. 
Neither  he,  nor  Lucile,  felt  the  rain, 

which  not  yet 
Had   ceased  falling  around    them  ; 

when,  splashed,  drenched,  and 

wet. 
The  Due  de  Luvois  down  the  rough 

mountain  course 
Approached  them  as  fast  as  the  road, 

and  his  horse. 
Which  was  limping,  would   suffer. 

The  beast  had  just  now 
Lost  his  footing,  and  over  the  peril- 
ous brow 


Of  the  storm-haunted  mountain  his 

master  had  thrown ; 
But  the  Duke,  who  was  agile,  had 

leaped  to  a  stone. 
And  the  horse,  being  bred  to  the  in- 
stinct which  fills 
The  breast  of  the  wild  mountaineer 

in  these  hills, 
Had  scrambled  again  to  his  feet ;  ard 

now  master 
And  horse  bore  about  them  the  signs 

of  disaster. 
As  they  heavily  footed  their    way 

through  the  mist, 
The  horse  with  his    shoulder,   the 

Duke  with  his  wrist, 
Bruised  and  bleeding. 


zix. 

If  ever  your  feet,  like  my  own, 
O  reader,  have  traversed  these  moun- 
tains alone. 
Have  you  felt  your  identity  shrink 

and  contract 
In  the  presence  of  nature's  immen- 
sities ?    Say, 
'  Have  you  hung  o'er  the  torrent,  be- 
j  dewed  with  its  spray, 

I  And,  leaving  tho  rock-way,  contort- 
i  ed  and  rolled, 

j  Like  a  huge  couchant  Typhon,  fold 
!  heaped  over  fold. 

Tracked  the  summits,  from  which 

every  step  that  you  tread 
Rolls  the  loose  stones,  with  thunder 

below,  to  the  bed 
Of  invisible  waters,  whose  mystical 

sound 
Fills    with    awful    suggestions    the 

dizzy  profound  ? 
And,    laboring    onwards,    at     last 

through  a  break 
In  the  walls  of  the  world,  Durst  at 
!  once  on  the  lake  ? 

I  If  you  have,  this  description  I  might 
I  have  withheld. 

!  You  remember  how  strangely  your 
i  bosom  has  swelled 


tUCILJS. 


4«> 


A.t  the  vision  revealed.  On  the  over- 
worked soil 

Of  this  planet,  enjoyment  is  sharp- 
ened by  toil ; 

And  one  seems,  by  the  pain  of  as- 
cending the  height, 

To  have  conquered  a  claim  to  that 
wonderful  sight. 


Hail,  virginal  daughter  of  cold  Es- 
pingo  I 

Hail,  Naiad,  whose  realm  is  the 
cloud  and  the  snow  ; 

For  o'er  thee  the  angels  have  whi- 
tened their  wings, 

And  the  thirst  of  the  seraphs  is 
quenched  at  thy  springs. 

What  hand  hath,  in  heaven,  upheld 
thine  expanse  ? 

Whc^n  the  breath  of  creation  first 
fashioned  fair  France, 

Did  the  Spirit  of  111,  in  his  down- 
throw appalling. 

Bruise  the  world,  and  thus  hollow 
thy  basin  while  falling  ? 

Ere  the  mammoth  was  born  hath 
some  monster  unnamed 

The  base  of  thy  mountainous  pedes- 
tal framed  ? 

And  later,  when  Power  to  Beauty 
was  wed. 

Did  some  delicate  fairy  embroider 
thy  bed 

With  the  fragile  valerian  and  wild 
columbine  ? 

XXI. 

But  thy  secret  thou  keepest,  and  I 

will  keep  mine  ; 
For  once  gazing  on  thee,  it  flashed 

on  my  soul. 
All  that  secret  !    I  saw  in  a  vision 

the  whole 
Vast  design  of  the  ages  ;  what  was 

and  shall  be  ! 
Hands  imseen  raised  the  veil  of  a 

great  mystery 
For  one    moment.      I  saw,  and  I 

heard  ;  and  my  heart 
Bore  witness  within  me  to  infinite 

art, 


In  infinite  power   proving    infinite 

love  ; 
Caught    the    great    choral    chant, 

marked     the    dread    pageant 

move — 
The  divine  Whence  and  Whither  of 

life  !    But,  O  daughter 
Of  Oo,  not  more  safe  in  the  deep 

silent  water 
Is  thy  secret,  than  mine  in  my  heart. 

Even  so. 
What  I  then  saw  and  heard,  the 

world  never  shall  know. 

XXII. 

The  dimness  of  eve  o'er  the  valleys 

had  closed, 
The   rain  had    ceased    falling,   the 

mountains  reposed. 
The  stars  had  enkindled  in  luminous 

courses 
Their  slow-sliding  lamps,  when,  re- 

moimting  their  horses. 
The  riders  retraversed  that  mighty 

serration 
Of  rock-work.     Thus  left  to  its  own 

desolation. 
The  lake,  from  whose  glimmering 

limits  the  last 
Transient  pomp  of  the  pageants  of 

sunset  had  passed, 
Drew  into  its  bosom  the  darkness, 

and  only  [lonely 

Admitted  within  it  one  image, — a 
And  tremulous  phantom  of  flicker- 
ing light 
That  followed  the  mystical   moon 

through  the  night. 

XXIII. 

It  was  late  when  o'er  Serchon  at  last 
they  descended. 

To  her  chalet,  in  silence,  Lord  Al- 
fred attended 

Lucile.  As  they  parted  she  whisper- 
ed him  low, 

"  You  have  made  to  me,  Alfred,  an 
offer  I  know 

All  the  worth  of,  believe  me.  I  can- 
not reply 

Without  time  for  reflection.  Good 
night  I— not  good  by." 


5^ 


LUCILE. 


"AJa^  I  'tis  the  very  same    answer 

you  made 
To  the  Due  de  Luvois  but  a  day 

since,"  he  said. 
"No,  Alfred  1  the  very  same,  no," 

she  replied. 
Her  voice  shook.     **  If  you  love  me, 

obey  me. 
Abide  my  answer,  to-morrow." 

XXIV. 

Alas,  Cousin  Jack  1 
You    Cassandra    in    breeches    and 

boots  I  turn  your  back 
To  the    ruins  of  Troy.      Prophet, 

seek  not  for  glory 
Amongst  thine  own  people. 

I  follow  my  story. 


CANTO  Y. 


Up  I  —  forth     again,     Pegasus  1  — 

"  Many's  the  slip," 
Ilatli  the  proverb  well  said,  ''  'twixt 

the  cup  and  the  lip  ! " 
How  blest  should  we  be,  have  I  often 

conceived, 
Had  we  really   achieved  what  we 

nearly  achieved  ! 
We  but  catch  at  the  skirts    of  the 

thing  we  would  be, 
And  fall  back  on  the  lap  of  a  false 

destiny. 

will  be,  s 

world  began  ! 
And  the  happiest,  noblest,  and  best 

part  of  man 
Is  the  part  which  he  never  hath 

fidly  played  out  : 
For  the  first  and  last  word  in  life's 

volume  is — Doubt. 
The  face  the  most  fair  to  our  vision 

allowed 
1»  the  face  we  encounter  and  lose  in 

the  crowd. 
The  thought  that  most  thrills  our 

existence  is  one 
Which,  before  we  can  frame  it  in 

language,  is  gone. 


0  Horace  !  the  rustic  stiU  rests  by 

the  river. 

But  the  river  flows  on,   and  flows 
past  him  forever  I 

Who  can  sit  down,  and  say,  .... 
"  What  I  will  be,  I  will"? 

Who  stand  up,  and  affirm  .... 
''  What  I  was,  I  am  still  "  ? 

Who  is  it  that  must  not,  if  ques- 
tioned, say,  .  .  .  "What 

1  would  have  remained,  or  become, 

I  am  not"  ? 
We  are  ever  behind,  or  beyond,  or 

beside  [hide 

Om*  intrinsic  existence.    Forever  at 
And  seek  with  our  souls.    Not  in 

Hades  alone 
Doth  Sisyphus  roll,  ever  frustrate, 

the  stone, 
Do  the  Dauaids  ply,  ever  vainly,  the 

sieve. 
Tasks  as  futile  does  earth  to  its  den- 
izens give. 
Yet  there's  none  so  unhappy,  but 

what  he  hath  been 
Just  about  to  be  happy,  at  some  time, 

I  ween  ; 
And  none  so  beguiled  and  defrauded 

by  chance. 
But  what  once,   in  his  life,   some 

minute  circumstance 
Would  have  fully  sufficed  to  secure 

him  the  bliss 
Which,  missing  it  then,  he  forever 

must  miss  ; 
And  to  most  of  us,  ere  we  go  down 

to  the  grave. 
Life,   relenting,   accords    the    good 

gift  we  would  have  ; 
But,  as  though  by  some  strange  im- 
perfection in  fate, 
The  good  gift,  when  it  comes,  comes 

a  moment  too  late. 
The  Future's  great  veil  our  breath 

fitfully  flaps, 
And  behind  it  broods  ever  the  migh- 
ty Perhaps. 
Yet  I  there's  many  a  slip  'twixt  the 

cup  and  the  lip  ; 
But  while  o'er  the  brim  of  life's 

beaker  I  dip. 


LUCILE. 


Tlioiigli  the  cup  may  next  moment 

be  shattered,  the  wine 
Spilt,  one  deep  heakh  I'll  pledge, 
and  that  health  shall  be  thine, 
O  being  of  beauty  and  bliss  1   seen 

and  known 
In  the  deeps  of  my  soul,  and  pos- 
sessed there  alone  ! 
My  days  know  thee  not  ;   and  my 

lips  name  thee  never. 
Thy  place  in  my  poor  life  is  vacant 

forever. 
We  have  met :  we  have  parted.    No 

more  is  recorded 
In  my  annals  on  earth.     This  alone 

-ft  as  afforded 
To  the  man  whom  men  knew  me,  or 
„,         deem  me,  to  be. 
But,  far  down,  in  the  depth  of  my 

life's  mystery 
(Like  the  siren  that  under  the  deep 

ocean  dwells. 
Whom  the  wind  as  it  wails,  and  the 

wave  as  it  swells. 
Cannot  stir  in  the  calm  of  her  coral- 
line halls, 
'Mid  the  world's  adamantine  and 

dim  pedestals  ; 
At  whose  feet  sit  the  sylphs  and  sea 

fairies  ;  for  whom 
The   almondine  glimmers,  the  soft 

samphires  bloom) — 
Thou  abidest  and   reignest  forever, 

O  Queen 
Of    that  better  world  which  thou 
^  swayest  unseen  ! 

My  one  perfect  mistress  I    my   all 

things  in  all  1 
Thee  by  no  vulgar  name  known  to 

men  do  I  call  : 
For  the  seraphs  have  named  thee  to 

me  in  my  sleep. 
And  that  name  is  a  secret  I  sacredly 

keep. 
But,  wherever  this  natm-e  of  mine 

is  most  fair, 
ilud  its  thoughts  are  the  pm^est — be- 
loved, thou  art  there  ! 
And   whatever    is  noblest  in  aught 

that  I  do,  [too. 

Is  done  to  exalt  and  to  worship  thee 


The  world  gave  t 

and  the  world 

Cannot    take  thee  away  from   me 
now.     I  have  furled 

The   wings  of  my  spirit  about  thy 
bright  head  ; 

At  thy  feet  are  my  soul's  immortal- 
ities spread. 

Thou    mightest    have  been   to  me 
much.     Thou  art  more. 

And  in  silence  I  worship,  in  dark- 
ness adore. 

If  life  be  not  that  which  without  ua 
we  find — 

Chance,  accident,  merely — but  rath- 
er the  mind, 

And  the  soul  which,  within  us,  sur- 
viveth  these  things. 

If  om-  real  existence  have  truly  its 
springs 

Less  in  that  which  we  do  than  in 
that  which  we  feel, 

Not  in  vain  do  I  worship,  not  hope- 
less I  kneel  ! 

For  then,  though  I  name  thee  not 
mistress  or  wife. 

Thou  art  mine — and  mine  only, — O 
life  of  my  life  ! 

And  though  many's  the  slip  'twixt 
the  cup  and  the  lip. 

Yet  while  o'er  the  brim  of  life's 
beaker  I  dip, 

Wliile  there's  life  on  the  lip,  while 
there's  warmth  in  the  wine, 

One  deep  health  I'll  pledge,  and  that 
health  shall  be  thine  I 


n. 

This  world,  on  whose  peaceable 
hreast  we  repose 

Unconvulsed  by  alarm,  once  con- 
fused in  the  throes 

Of  a  tumult  divine,  sea  and  land, 
moist  and  dry, 

A.nd  in  fiery  fusion  commixed  earth 
and  sky. 

Time  cooled  it,  and  calmed  it,  tmd 
taught  it  to  go 

The  round  of  its  orbit  in  peace,  long 
ago. 


S2 


LUCILE. 


Tlie  wind  changeth   and  wliirleth 
continually  : 

All  tlie  rivers  run  down  and  run  into 
the  sea  : 

The  wind   whirleth  about,   and    is 
presently  stilled  : 

All  the  rivers  rim  down,  yet  the  sea 
is  not  filled  : 

The  sun  goeth  forth  from  his  cham- 
bers :  the  sun 

Ariscth,    and    lo  I    he    descendeth 
anon. 

All  returns  to  its  place.     Use  and 
Habit  are  powers 

Far  stronger  than  I'assion,  in  this 
world  of  ours. 

The  great  laws  of  life  readjust  their 
infraction, 

And  to  every  emotion  appoint  a  re- 
action. 

ni. 

Alfred  Yargrave  had  time,af  ter  leav- 
ing Lucile, 

To  review  the  rash  step  he  had  ta- 
ken, and  feel 

What  the  world  would  have  called 
*'  his  erroneous  position.^' 

Thought  obtruded  its  claim,  and  en- 
forced recognition  : 

Like  a  creditor  who,  when  the  gloss 
is  worn  out 

On  the  coat  which  we  once  wore 
with  pleasure,  no  doubt, 

Sends  us  in  his  account  for  the  gar- 
ment we  bouglit. 

Every  spendthrift  to  passion  is  debt- 
or to  thought. 


IV. 


He 


He  fell  ill  at  ease  with  himself, 
could  feel 

Little  doubt  what  the  answer  would 
be  from  Lucile. 

Her  eyes,    when  they  parted, — her 
voice,  when  they  met, 

Still  enrapturetl    his    heart,   which 
they  haunted.     And  yet, 

Though,  exulting,   he  deemed  him- 
self loved,  where  he  lovml, 

TLrough  his  mind  a  vague  self-ac- 
cusaliou  there  moved. 


O'er  his  fancy,  when  fancy  was  fair- 
est, would  rise 
The  infantine  face  of  Matilda,  with 

eyes 
So  sad,   so  reproachful,   so  cruelly 

kind. 
That  his  heart  failed   within  him. 

In  vain  did  he  find 
A  thousand  just  reasons  for  what  he 

had  done  :  ■ 
The  vision  that  troubled  him  would 

not  be  gone. 
In  vain  did  he  say  to  himself,  and 

with  truth, 
"  Matilda  has  beauty     and  fortune, 

and  youth  ; 
And  her  heart  is  too  young  to  have 

deeply  involved 
All  its  hopes  in  the  tie  which  must 

now  be  dissolved. 
'Twere  a  false  sense  of  honor  in  me 

to  suppress 
The  sad  truth  which  I  owe  it  to  her 

to  confess. 
And  what  reason  have  I  to  presume 

this  poor  life 
Of  my  own,   with   its  languid  and 

frivolous  strife, 
And  without  what  alone  might  en- 
dear it  to  her. 
Were  a  boon  all  so  precious,  indeed, 

to  confer. 
Its  withdrawal  can  wrong  her  ? 

"It  is  not  as  though 
I  were  bound  to  some  poor  village 

maiden,  I  know,  ^ 

Unto  whose  simple  heart  mine  were 

all  upon  earth. 
Or  to  whose  simple  fortunes  my  own 

could  give  worth. 
Matilda,  in  all  the  world's  gifts,  will 

not  miss 
Aught    that    I   could   procure  her. 

'Tis  best  as  it  is  I" 


V. 


In    vain    did    he    say    to    himself, 

"When  I  came 
To  this  fatal  spot,  I  had  nothing  to 

bianxe 


LUC  TLB. 


53 


Or  reproach  myself  for,  in  the 
thoughts  of  my  heart. 

I  could  not  foresee  that  its  pulses 
woulil  start 

Into  such  strange  emotion  on  seeing 
once  more 

A  woman  I  left  with  iudifiference  be- 
fore. 

I  believed,  and  with  honest  convic- 
tion believed, 

In  my  love  for  Matilda.  I  never 
conceived 

That  another  could  shake  it.  I 
deemed  I  had  done 

With  the  wild  heart  of  youth,  and 
looked  hopefully  on 

To  the  soberer  manhood,  the  wor- 
thier life. 

Which  I  sought  in  the  love  that  I 
vowed  to  my  wife. 

Poor  child  !  she  shall  learn  the 
whole  truth.     She  shall  know 

What  I  knew  not  myself  but  a  few 
days  ago. 

The  world  will  console  her, — her 
pride  will  support, — 

Her  youth  will  renew  its  emotions. 
In  short, 

There  is  nothing  in  me  that  Matilda 
will  miss 

When  once  we  have  parted.  'Tis 
best  as  it  is  !  " 

VI. 

But  in  vain  did  he  reason  and  ar- 
gue.    Alas  ! 

He  yet  felt  miconvinced  that  ^twas 
best  as  it  was. 

Out  of  reach  of  all  reason,  forever 
would  rise 

That  infantine  face  of  Matilda,  with 
eyes 

So  sad,  so  reproachful,  so  cruelly 
kind, 

That  they  harrowed  his  heart  and 
distracted  his  mind. 


And  then,  when  he  turned  from 
these  thoughts  to  Lucile, 

Though  his  heart  rose  enrapt^u■ed, 
he  could  not  but  feel 


A  vague  sense  of  awe  of  her  nature. 

Behind 
All  the  beauty  of  heart,   and  the 

graces  of  mind. 
Which  he  saw  and  revered  in  her, 

something  unknown 
And    unseen    in    that    nature    still 

troubled  his  own. 
He  felt  that  Lucile  penetrated  and 

prized 
Whatever    was    noblest    and    best, 

though  disguised, 
In  himself  ;  but  he  did  not  feel  sure 

that  he  knew. 
Or  completely  possessed,  what,  half 

hidden  from  view. 
Remained  lofty  and  lonely  in  her. 

Then,  her  life, 
So  untamed,  and  so  free  !  would  she 

yield  as  a  wife. 
Independence,  long  claimed  as  a  wo- 
man ?    Her  name. 
So  linked   by  the  world  with  that 

spurious  fame 
"Which  the  beauty  and  wit  of  a  wo- 
man assert, 
In  some  measure,  alas  !  to  her  own 

loss  and  hurt 
In  the  serious  thoughts  of  a  man  ! 

....  Tb  is  rellectiDu 
O'er  the  love  which  he  felt  cast  a 

shade  of  dejection. 
From  which  he  forever  escaped  to 

the  thought 
Doubt  could  reach  not.  .  .  .  *'Ilove 

her,  and  all  else  is  naught  ! " 

VIII. 

His    hand    trembled    strangely    in 

breaking  the  seal 
Of  the  letter  which  reached  him  at 

last  from  I.ucile. 
At  the  sight  of  the  vei7  first  word 

that  he  read, 
That  letter  dropi^ed  down  from  his 

hand  like  the  dead 
Leaf  in  autumn,  that,  falling,  leaves 

naked  and  bare 
A  desolate  tree  in  a  wide  wintry  air. 
He  passed  bis  hand  hurriedly  ovel 

his  eyes,  [prise 

Bewildered,  incredulous.  Angi-y  sur- 


S4 


LUCILE. 


And  dismay,  in  one  sharp  moan, 
brolie  from  him.     Anon 

He  picked  up  the  page,  and  read  rap- 
idly on. 

IX. 

The  CoMTESSB  BE  Nevers?  to  Lord 
Alfred  Yargrave. 

"No,  Alfred  I 

"  If  over  the  present,  when  last 
We  two  met,  rose  the  glamour  and 

mist  of  the  past, 
It  hath  now  rolled  away,  and  orn* 

two  paths  are  plain. 
And  those  two  paths  divide  us. 

"  That  hand  which  again 
Mine  one  moment  has  clasped  as  the 

hand  of  a  brother, 
That    hand    and    your   honor    are 

pledged  to  another  ! 
Forgive,   Alfred    Vargrave,   forgive 

me,  if  yet 
For  that  moment  (now  past  !)  I  have 

made  you  forget 
What  was  due  to  yourself  and  that 

other  one.     Yes, 
Mine  the  fault,  and  be  mine  the  re- 
pentance !    Not  less 
In  now  owning  this  fault,  Alfred, 

let  me  own,  too, 
I  foresaw  not   the  sorrow  involved 

in  it, 

"True, 
That  meeting,  which  hath  been  so 

fatal,  I  sought, 
I  alone  !    13ut  O,  deem  not  it  was 

with  the  thought 
Or  your  heart  to  regain,  or  the  past 

to  re  waken. 
No  1    believe  me,   it  was  with  the 

firm  and  mishaken 
Couviction,  at  least,  that  our  meet- 
ing would  be 
Without  peril  to  you,  although  haply 

to  me 
The  salvation  of  all  my  existence. 

"I  own, 
When  the  rumor  first  reached  me, 

which  lightly  made  known 
To  the  world  your  engagement,  my 

heart  and  my  mind 


Suffered    torture  Intense.      It  was 

cruel  to  find 
That  so  much  of  the  life  of  my  life, 

half  miknown 
To  myself,  had  been  silently  settled 

on  one 
Upon  whom  but  to  think  it  would 

soon  be  a  crime. 
Then  I  said   to  myself,   '  From  the 

thraldom  which  time 
Hath  not  weakened  there  rests  but 

one  hope  of  escape. 
That  image  which  Fancy  seems  ever 

to  shape 
From    the  solitude  left  round  the 

ruins  of  yore 
Is  a  phantom.     The  Being  I  loved 

is  no  more. 
What  I  hear  in  the  silence,  and  see 

in  the  lone 
Yoid  of  life,  is  the  young  hero  born 

of  my  own 
Perished  youth  :  and  his  image,  se- 
rene and  sublime. 
In  my  heart   rests  unconscious  of 

change  and  of  time. 
Could  I  see  it  but  once  more,  as  time 

and  as  change 
Have  made  it,  a  thing  unfamiliar  and 

strange, 
See,  indeed,  that  the  Being  I  loved  in 

my  youth 
Is  no  more,  and  what  rests  now  ia 

only,  in  truth. 
The  hard  pupil  of  life  and  the  world  : 

then,  O,  then, 
I  should  wake  from  a  dream,  and  my 

life  be  again 
Reconciled  to  the  world  ;  and,  re- 
leased from  regret, 
Take  the  lot    fate    accords  to  my 

choice.' 

"  So  we  met. 
But  the  danger  I  did  not  foresee  has 

occurred  : 
The  danger,  alas,  to  yourself  !  I  have 

erred. 
But  happy  for  both  that  this  error 

hath  been 
Discovr-red  as  soon  as  the  danger  was 

oeeu  \ 


LUCILE. 


55 


We  meet,  Alfred  Vargrave,  no  more. 
I,  indeed, 

Shall  be  far  from  Serclion  when  this 
letter  you  read. 

My  couise  is  decided  ;  my  path  I  dis- 
cern : 

Doubt  is  over  ;  my  future  is  fixed 
now. 

"Return, 

0  return  to  the  young  living  love! 

"Whence,  alas  I 
[f ,  one  moment,  you  wandered,  think 

only  it  was 
More  deeply  to  bury  the  past  love. 

"And,  ohi 
Believe,   Alfred  Vargrave,    that    t, 

where  I  go 
On  my  far  distant  pathway  through 

life,  shall  rejoice 
To  treasure  in  memory  all  that  your 

voice 
Has  avowed  to    me,   all  in  which 

others  have  clothed 
To  my  fancy  with  beauty  and  worth 

your  betrothed  I 
In   the  fair  morning  light,   in   the 

orient  dew 
Of  that  yoimg  hfe,  now  yours,  can 

you  fail  to  renew 
All  the  noble  and  piu-e  aspirations, 

the  truth. 
The  freshness,  the  faith,  of  your  own 

earnest  youth  ? 
Yes  I  you  will  be  happy.     I,  too,  in 

the  bliss 

1  foresee  for  you,  I  shall  be  happy. 

And  this 
Proves  me  worthy  your  friendship. 

And  so — let  it  prove 
That  I  cannot^ — I  do  not — respond  to 

your  love. 
Yes,  indeed  !  be  convinced  that  I 

could  not  (no,  no, 
Never,  never  !)  have  rendered  you 

happy.     And  so, 
Rest  assured  that,  if  false  to  the  vows 

you  have  plighted, 
You  would  have  endured,  when  the 

first  brief,  excited 
Emotion  was  o'er,  not  alone  the  re- 
morse 


Of  honor,  hut  also  (to  render  it  worse) 

Disappointed  affection. 

"  Yes,  Alfred  ;  you  start'? 

But  think  !   if  the  world  was  too 
much  in  your  heart. 

And  too  little  in  mine,   when  we 
parted  ten  years 

Ere  this  last  fatal  meeting,  that  time 
(ay,  and  tears  !) 

Have  but  deepened  the  old  demarca- 
tions which  then 

Placed  our  natures  asunder  ;  and  we 
two  again, 

A3  we  then  were,  would  still  have 
been  strangely  at  strife. 

lu  that  self-independence  which  is  to 
my  life 

Its  necessity  now,  as  it  once  was  its 
pride. 

Had  our  course  through  the  world 
been  henceforth  side  by  side, 

I  should  have  revolted  forever,  and 
shocked. 

Your  respect  for  the  world's  plausi- 
bilities, mocked. 

Without  meaning  to  do  so,  and  out- 
raged, all  those 

Social  creeds  which  you  live  by. 

"  OhI  do  not  suppose 

That  I  blame  you.    Perhaps  it  is  you 
that  are  right. 

Best,  then,  all  as  it  is  1 
"Deem  these  words  life's  Good- 
night 

To  the  hope  of  a  moment :  no  more! 
If  there  fell 

Any    tear   on    this    page,    'twas    a 
friend's. 

"So  farewell 

To  the  past — and  to  you,  Alfred  Var- 
grave. 

"  LUCILK.'* 


X. 

So  ended  that  letter. 

The  room  seemed  to  reel 
Round  and  round  in  the  mist  that 

was  scorching  his  eyes 
With  a  fiery  dew.   Grief,  resentment, 

surprise, 


56 


LUCILB. 


Half  choked  him  ;  each  word  he  had 

read,  as  ii  siuote 
Down  some  liope,  rose  and  grasped 

like  a  hand  at  his  throat, 
To  stifle  and  strangle  him. 

Gasping  already 
For  relief  from  himself,  with  a  foot- 
step nnbteady, 
He  passed  from  his  chamber.     He 

felt  both  oppressed 
And  excited.     The  letter  he  thrust 

in  his  breast, 
And,  in  search  of  fresh  air  and  of 

solitude,  passed 
The  long  lime-trees  of  Serchon.   His 

footsteps  at  last 
Reached  a  bare  narrow  heath  by  the 

skirts  of  a  wood  : 
It  was  sombre  and  silent,  and  suited 

his  mood. 
By  a  mineral  spring,  long  unused, 

now  unknown. 
Stood  a   small    ruined   abbey.     He 

reached  it,  sat  down 
On  a  fragment  of  stone,  'mid  the 

wild  weed  and  thistle, 
And  read  over  again  that  perplexing 

epistle. 


XI. 

In  re-reading  that  letter,  there  rolled 

from  his  mind 
The  raw  mist  of  resentment  which 

first  made  him  blind 
To  the  pathos  breathed  through  it. 

Tears  rose  in  his  eyes. 
And  a  hope  sweet  and  strange  in  his 

heart  seemed  to  rise. 
The  truth  which  he  saw  not  the  first 

time  lie  read 
That  letter,  he  now  saw, — that  each 

word  betrayed 
The  love  which  the  writer  had  sought 

to  conceal. 
His  love  was  received  not,  he  could 

not  but  feel. 
For  one  reason  alone, — that  his  love 

was  not  free. 
True !  free  yet  he  was  not :  but  could 

he  not  bo 


Free  ere  long,  free  as  air  to  revoke      ' 
thai  farewell,  j 

And  to  sanction  his  own  hopes  ?  he      j 
had  but  to  tell  \ 

The  truth  to  Matilda,  and  she  wero 
the  first 

To  release  him  :  he  had  but  to  wait 
at  the  worst. 

Matilda's  relations  would  probably 
snatch 

Any  pi-etext,  with  pleasure,  to  break 
off  a  match 

In  which  they  had  yielded,  alone  at 
the  whim 

Of  their  spoiled  child,  a  languid  ap- 
proval to  him. 

Sli^e  herself,  careless  child  !  was  her 
love  for  him  aught 

Save  the  first  joyous  fancy  succeed- 
ing the  thought 

She  last  gave  to  her  doll  ?  was  she 
able  to  feel 

Such  a  love  as  the  love  he  divined  in 
Lucile  ? 

He  would  seek  her,  obtain  his  re- 
lease, and,  oh  !  then. 

He  had  but  to  fly  to  Lucile,  and  again 

Claim  the  love  which  his  heart  would 
be  free  to  command. 

But  to  press  on  Lucile  any  claim  to 
her  hand. 

Or  even  to  seek,  or  to  see  her.  before 

He  could  say,  "  I  am  free  !  free,  Lu- 
cile, to  implore 

That  great  blessing  on  life  you  alone 
can  confer," 

'Twere  dishonor  in  him,  'twould  be 
insult  to  her. 

Thus  still  with  the  letter  outspread 
on  his  knee 

He  followed  so  fondly  his  own  rev- 
ery, 

That  he  felt  not  the  angry  regard  of 
a  man 

Fixed  upon  him  ;  he  saw  not  a  face 
stern  and  wan 

Turned  towards  him  ;  he  heard  not 
a  footstep  that  passed 

And  repassed  the  lone  spot  where  he 
stood,  till  at  last 

A  hoarse  voice  aroused  him. 


LVC2LB. 


5^ 


He  looked  up  and  saw, 
On  the  l)are  heath  before  him,  the 

Due  de  Luvois. 
xn. 
With  aggressive  ironical  tones,  and 

a  look 
Of  coneeni  rated  insolent  challenge, 

the  Uuke 
Addressed     to    Lord    Alfred    some 

sneering  allusion 
To  *'  the  doiihtlcss  siibhme  reveries 

his  intrusion 
Had,  he    feared,  interrupted.      Mi- 
lord would  do  better, 
He  fancied,  however,  to  fold  up  a 

letter 
The  writing  of  which  was  too  well 

known,  m  fact. 
His  remark   as  he  passed   to  have 

failed  to  attract." 

XIII. 

It  was  obvious  to  Alfred  the  French- 
man was  bent 

Upon  picking  a  quarrel !  and  doubt- 
less 'twas  meant 

From   ]dm  to  provoke  it  by  sneers 
such  as  these. 

A  moment  sufficed  his  quick  instinct 
to  seize 

The  position.    He  felt  that  he  could 
not  expose 

His  own  name,  or  Lucile's,  or  Ma- 
tilda's, to  those 

Idle  tongues  that  would  bring  down 
upon  him  the  ban 

Of  the  world,  if  he  now  vrrxasto  fight 
with  this  man. 

And  indeed,  when  he  looked  in  the 
Duke's  haggard  face. 

He  was  pained  by  the  change  there 
he  coidd  not  but  trace. 

And  he  almost  felt  pity. 

He  therefore  put  by 

Each  remark  from  the  Duke  with 
some  careless  reply. 

And  coldly,  but  courteously,  waving 
away 

The  ill-humor  the  Duke  seemed  re- 
solved to  displa}, 

Eose,  and  turned,  with  a  stern  salu- 
tation, aside. 


xrv. 

Then  the  Duke  put  himself  in  the 
path,  made  one  stride 

In   advance,   raised    a    hand,  fixed 
upon  him  his  eyes. 

And  said  .  .  , 

*'  Hold,  Lord  Alfred  !    Away  with 
disguise  I 

I  will  own  that  I  sought  you  a  mo- 
ment ago, 

To  fix  on  you  a  quarrel.     I  still  can 
do  so 

Upon  any  excuse.      I  prefer  to  be 
frank. 

I  admit  not  a  rival  in  fortune  or 
rank 

To  the  hand  of  a  woman,  whatever 
be  hers 

Or  her  suitor's.     I  love  the  Comtesse 
de  Nevers. 

I  believed,  ere  you  crossed  me,  and 
still  have  the  right 

To  believe,  that  she  would  have  been 
mine.     To  her  sight 

You  return,  and  the  woman  is  sud- 
denly changed. 

You  step  in  between  us  :  her  heart 
is  estranged. 

You  I  who  now    are   betrothed  to 
another,  I  know  : 

You  I  whose    name    with    Lucile's 
nearly  ten  years  ago 

Was  coupled  by  ties  which  you  broke: 
you!  the  man 

I  reproached  on  the  day  our  acquaint- 
ance began  : 

You!  that  left  her  so  lightly,— I  can- 
not believe 

That  you  love,  as  I  love,  her  ;  noi 
can  I  conceive 

You,  indeed,  have  the  right  so  to 
love  her. 

"Milord 

I  will  not  thus  tamely  concede,  at 
your  word. 

What,  a  few  days  ago,  I  believed  to 
be  mine  ! 

I  shall  yet  persevere:  I  shall  yet  be, 
in  fine, 

A  rival  you  dare  not  despise.    It  is 
plain 


58 


LUCILE. 


That  to  settle  this  contest  there  can 

but  remain 
One  way— need  I  say  what  it  is  ?  " 

XV. 

Not  immoved 

With  regretful  respect  for  the  earn- 
estness proved 

By  the  speech  he  had  heard,  Alfred 
Vargrave  replied 

In  words  which  he  trusted  might 
yet  turn  aside 

The  quarrel  from  which  he  felt 
bound  to  abstain, 

And,  with  stately  urbanity,  strove  to 
explain 

To  the  Duke  that  he  too  (a  fair 
rival  at  worst ! ) 

Had  not  been  accepted. 

XVI. 

"  Accepted!  say  first 
Are  you  free  to  have  offered  ?  " 

Lord  Alfred  was  mute. 

xvn. 

"  Ah,  you  dare  not  reply ! "  cried  the 

Duke,     '*  Why  dispute, 
Why    palter    with    me  ?     You  are 

silent  1  and  why  ? 
Because,   in   your    conscience,  you 

cannot  deny 
'Twas    from    vanity,   wanton    and 

cruel  withal, 
And  the  wish  an  ascendency  lost  to 

recall. 
That  you  stepped  in  between  me  and 

her.     If,  milord, 
You  be  really  sincere,  I  ask  only  one 

word. 
Say  at  once  you  renounce  her.    At 

once,  on  my  part, 
I  will  ask  yoiu-  forgiveness  with  all 

truth  of  heart, 
And  there  can  be  no  quarrel  between 

us.     Say  on!" 
Lord  Alfred  grew  galled   and  im- 
patient.    This  tone 
Roused  a  strong  irritation  he  could 

not  repress. 
"  You  have  not  the  right,  sir,"  he 

said,  "and  still  less 


The  power,  to  make  terms  and  con- 
ditions with  me. 
I  refuse  to  reply." 

XVIII. 

As  diviners  may  see 
Fates  they  cannot    avert  in    some 

figm-e  occult, 
He  foresaw  in  a  moment  each  evil 

result 
Of  the  quarrel  now  imminent. 

There,  face  to  face, 
'Mid  the  ruins  and  tombs  of  a  long- 
perished  race. 
With,  for  witness,  the  stern  Autumn 

Sky  overhead. 
And  beneath  them,  unnoticed,  the 

graves,  and  the  dead, 
Those  two  men  had  met,  as  it  were 

on  the  ridge 
Of  that  perilous,  narrow,  invisible 

bridge 
Dividing  the  Past  from  the  Futiu-e, 

so  small 
That,  if  one  should  pass  over,  the 

other  must  fall. 

XIX. 

On  the  ear,   at  that  moment,  the 

sound  of  a  hoof, 
Urged  with  speed,  shai-ply  smote ; 

and  from  under  the  roof 
Of  the  forest  in  view,   where  the 

skirts  of  it  verged 
On  the  heath  where  they  stood,  at 

full  gallop  emerged 
A  horseman. 

A  guide  he  appeared,  by  the  sash 
Of  red  silk  round  the  waist,  and  the 

long  leathern  lash 
With  the  short  wooden  handle,  slung 

crosswise  behind 
The  short  jacket ;  the  loose  canvas 

trouser,  confined 
By  the  long  boots  ;  the  woollen  ca- 
pote ;  and  the  rein, 
A  mere  hempen  cord  on  a  curb. 

Up  the  plain 
He  wheeled  his  horse,  white  with  the 

foam  on  his  flank. 
Leaped  the  rivulet  lightly,  turned 

sharp  from  the  bank, 


LUCILE. 


59 


And,  approaching  the  Duke,  raised 
his  woollen  capote, 

Bowed  low  in  the  selle,  and  deliv- 
ered a  note. 

XX. 

The    two    stood    astonished.      The 

Duke,  with  a  gest 
Of    apology,  turned,   stretched    his 

hand,  and  possessed 
Himself  of  the  letter,  changed  color, 

and  tore 
The  page  open,  and  read. 

Ere  a  moment  was  o'er 
His  whole  aspect  changed.     A  light 

rose  to  his  eyes, 
And  a  smile  to  his  lips.    While  with 

startled  surprise 
Lord  Alfred  yet  watched  him,  he 

turned  on  his  heel, 
And  said  gayly,    "A  pressing    re- 
quest from  Lucile  ! 
You  are  quite  right,  Lord  Alfred ;  fair 

rivals  at  worst. 
Our  relative  place  may  perchance  be 

reversed. 
You  are  not  accepted— nor  free  to 

propose ! 
I,  perchance,  am  accepted  already ; 

who  knows  ? 
I  had  warned  you,  milord,  I  should 

still  persevere. 
This  letter — but  stay !  you  can  read  it 

— look  here!" 

XXI. 

it  was  now  Alfred's  turn  to  feel 
roused  and  enraged. 

Bui  Lucile  to  himself  was  not  pledged 
or  engaged 

By  aught  that  could  sanction  resent- 
ment.    He  said 

Not  a  word,  but  turued  round,  took 
the  letter,  and  read  .  .  . 

2'Ae  CoMTESSE  DE  Nevers  to  the 
Due  DE  Luvois. 

'^Saij^t  Savioub. 
"Your   letter,  which   followed   me 

here,  makes  me  stay 
Till  I  see  you  again.    With  no  mo- 
ment's delay. 


I  entreat,  I  conjmc  you,  by  all  that 

you  feel 
Or  profess,  to  come  to  me  directly. 
•'  Lucile." 

XXII. 

"Your  letter!"     He  then  had  been 
writing  to  her ! 

Coldly  shrugging  his  shoulders,  Lord 
Alfred  said,  ' '  Sir, 

Do  not  let  me  detain  you! " 

The  Duke  smiled  and  bowed; 

Placed  the  note  in  his  bosom;  ad- 
dressed, half  aloud, 

A  few  words  to  the  messenger:  .  .  . 
"  Say  your  despatch 

Will  be  answered  ere  nightfall ; "  then 
glanced  at  his  watch. 

And  turned  back  to  the  Baths. 

XXIII. 

Alfred  Vargrave  stood  still, 
Torn,  distracted  in  heart,  and  divided 

in  will. 
He  turned  to  Lucile' s  farewell  letter 

to  him. 
And  read  over  her  words ;  rising  tears 

made  them  dim; 
"  Doubt  is  over:  my  future  is  fixed 

now,^'  they  said, 
"  2Iy    course     is    decided."      Her 

course  ?  what !  to  wed 
With  this  insolent  rival  f    With  that 

thought  there  shot 
Through  his  heart  an  acute  jealous 

anguish.     But  not 
Even  thus  could  his  clear  worldly 

sense  quite  excuse 
Tliose  strange  words  to  the  Duke. 

She  was  free  to  refuse 
Himself,  free  the  Duke  to  accept,  it 

was  true : 
Even  then,  though,  this  eager  and 

strange  rendezvous 
How  imprudent!     To    some   unfre- 
quented lone  inn. 
And  so  late  (for  the  nii^Lit  was  about 

to  begin) — 
She,  companionless  there! — had  sho 

bidden  that  man  ? 
A  fear,  vague,  and  formless,  and  hor- 
rible, ran 
Through  his  heart. 


6c 


LVCILE. 


XXTV. 

At  that  moment  he  looked  up,  and 

saw, 
Riding  fast  through  the  forest,  the 

Due  de  Luvois, 
Who  waved  his  hand  to  him,  and 

sped  out  of  sight. 
The  day  was  descending.     He  felt 

'twould  be  night 
Ere  that  man  reached  Saint  Saviour. 

XXV. 

He  walked  on,  but  not 
Back  toward  Serchon :  he  walked  on, 

but  knew  not  in  what 
Direction,. nor  yet  with  what  object, 

indeed, 
lie  was  walking ;  but  still  he  walked 

on  without  heed. 

XXVI. 

The    day  had    been    sullen  ;    but, 

towards  his  decline. 
The  sun  sent  a  stream  of  wild  light 

up  the  pine. 
Darkly  denting  the  red  light  revealed 

at  its  back. 
The  old  ruined  abbey  rose  roofless 

and  black. 
The  spring  that  yet  oozed  through 

the  moss-paven  floor 
Had  suggested,  no    doubt,   to    the 

monks  there,  of  yore, 
The  site  of  that  refuge  where,  back 

to  its  God 
[low    many  a   heart,  now    at  rest 

'neatli  the  sod. 
Had  borne  from  the  world  all  the 

same  wild  unrest 
That  now  preyed  on  his  own  1 


By  the  thoughts  in  his  breast 
With  varying  impulse  divided  and 

torn, 
He  traversed  the  scant  heath,  and 

reached  the  forlorn 
Autumn  woodland,  in  which  but  a 

short  while  ago 
He  had  seen  the  Duke  rapidly  enter; 

and  80 


He  too  entered.    The  light  waned 

around  him,  and  passed 
Into  darkness.     The  wrathful,  red 

Occident  cast 
One  glare  of  vindictive  inquiry  be- 
hind. 
As  the  last  light  of  day  from  the  high 

wood  declined, 
And  the  great  forest  sighed  its  fare 

well  to  the  beam. 
And  far  off  on  the  stillness  the  voice 

of  the  stream 
Fell  faintly. 

xxvTn. 
O  Nature,  how  fair  is  thy  face, 
And  how  light  is  thy  heart,  and  hoAV 

friendless  thy  grace! 
Thou  false  mistress  of  man!   thou 

dost  sport  with  him  lightly 
In  his  hours  of  ease  and  enjoyment; 

and  brightly 
Dost  thou  smile  to  his  smile;  to  his 

joys  thou  inclinest, 
But  his  sorrows,  thou  knowest  them 

not,  nor  divinest. 
While  he  woos,  thou  art  wanton; 

thou  lettest  him  love  thee; 
But  thou  art  not  his  friend,  for  his 

grief  cannot  move  thee ; 
And  at  last,  when  he  sickens  and 

dies,  what  dost  thou  ? 
All  as  gay  are  thy  garments,  as  care- 
less thy  brow, 
And  thou  laughest  and  toyest  with 

any  new  comer. 
Not  a  tear  more  for  winter,  a  smile 

less  for  smnmer! 
Hast  thou  never  an  anguish  to  heave 

the  heart  under 
That  fair  breast  of  thine,   O  thou 

feminine  wonder! 
For  all  those — the  young,   and  the 

fair,  and  the  strong, 
Who  have  loved  thee,  and  lived  with 

thee  gayly  and  long. 
And  who  now  on  thy  bosom  lie  dead  ? 

and  their  deeds 
And  their  days  arc  forgotten!    O, 

hast  thou  no  weeds 
And  not  one  year  of  mourning,—  one 

out  of  the  many 


LUCJLE. 


6i 


That  deck  thy  new  bridals  forever,— 

nor  any 

Regrets  for  thy  lost  loves,  concealed 
from  the  new, 

O  thou  widow  of  earth's  genera- 
tions ?    Goto! 

If  the  sea  and  the  night  wind  know 
aught  of  these  things. 

They  do  not  reveal  it.  We  are  not 
thy  kings. 


CANTO  VI. 


"  The  huntsman  has  ridden  too  far 

on  the  chase, 
And  eklrich,  and  eerie,  and  strange 

is  the  place! 
TiiG  castle  betokens  a  date  long  gone 

by. 

He  crosses  the  court-yard  with  curi- 
ous eye  : 
He  wanders  from  chamber  to  cham- 
ber, and  yet 
From  strangeness  to  strangeness  his 

footsteps  are  set ; 
And  the  whole  place  grows  wilder 

and  wilder,  and  less 
Like  auglit  seen   before.    Each  in 

obsolete  dress. 
Strange  portraits   regard  him  with 

looks  of  surprise. 
Strange  forms  from  the  arras  start 

forth  to  his    yes; 
Strange   epigraphs,    blazoned,   burn 

out  of  the  wall  = 
The  spell  of  .  wizard  is  over  it  all. 
In    her    chamber     enchanted,    the 

Princess  is  deeping 
The  sleep  which  for  centuries  she 

has  been  keeping. 
If  she  smile  in  her  sleep,  it  must  be 

to  some  lover 
Whose  lc3t  golaen   locks  the  long 

grasses  now  cover: 
£f  she  moan  in  her  dream,  it  must 

be  to  deplore 
Some  grief  which  the  world  cares  to 

hear  of  no  more. 
But  how  fair  is  her  forehead,   how 

calm  seems  her  cheek  1 


And  how  sweet  must  that  voice  be, 
if  once  she  would  speak 

He  looks    and    he    loves  her  ;  but 
knows  he  (not  he!  ) 

The  clew  to  unravel  this  old  mys- 
tery? 

And  he  stoops  to  those  shut  lips. 
The  shapes  on  the  wall, 

The  mute  men  in  armor  around  him, 
and  all 

The  weird  figures  frown,  as  though 
striving  to  say, 

'Halt!  invade  not  the  Past,  reck- 
less child  of  To-day  I 

And  give  not,  O  madman  !  the  heart 
in  thy  breast 

To  a  phantom,   the  soul  of  whose 
sense  is  possessed 

By  an  Age  not  thine  own  ! ' 

*'  But  unconscious  is  he, 

And  he  heeds  not  the  warning,  he 
cares  not  to  see 

Aught  but  one  form  before  him ! 

"  Rash,  wild  words  are  o'er 

And    the  vision   is  vanished  from 
sight  evermore ! 

And  the  gray  morning  sees,  as  it 
drearily  moves 

O'er  a  land  long  deserted,  a  madman 
that  roves 

Through  a  ruin,  and  seeks  to  re- 
capture a  dream. 

Lost  to  life  and  its  uses,  withdrawn 
from  the  scheme 

Of  man's  waking  existence,  he  wan- 
ders apart." 

And  this  is  an  old  fairy-tale  of  the 
heart. 

It  is  told  in  all  lands,  in  a  different 
tongue  ; 

Told  with  tears  by  the  old,  heard 
with  smiles  by  the  young. 

And   the  tale  to  each  heart    unto 
which  it  is  known 

Has  a  different  sense.    It  has  puz- 
zled my  own. 

II. 

Eugene  de  Luvois  was  a  man  who, 

in  part 
From  strong  physical  health,  and 

that  vigor  of  hearfc 


62 


LUCILE. 


Whicli  physical   health  gives,   and 

partly,  perchance, 
From  a  generous  vanity  native  to 

France, 
With  the  heart  of  a  hunter,  what- 
ever the  quarry. 
Pursued  it,  too  hotly  impatient  to 

tarry 
Or  turn,  till  he  took  it.    His  trophies 

were  trifles  : 
Bat  trifler  he  was  not.     When  rose- 
leaves  it  rifles. 
No  less  than  when  oak-trees  it  ruins, 

the  wind 
Its  pleasure  pursues  with  impetuous 

mind. 
Both  Eugene  de  Luvois  and  Lord 

Alfred  had  been 
Men  of  pleasure:  but  men's  pleasant 

vices,  which,  seen 
Floating  faint,  in  the  smishine  of 

Alfred's  soft  mood, 
Seemed  amiable  foibles,  by  Luvois 

pursued 
With    impetuous    passion,    seemed 

semi-Satanic. 
Half  pleased  you  see  brooks  play 

with  pebbles ;  in  panic 
You  watch  them  whirled  down  by 

the  torrent. 

In  truth. 
To  the  sacred  political  creed  of  his 

youth 
The  century  which  he  was  born  to 

denied 
All  realization.     Its  generous  pride 
To  degenerate  protest  on  all  thi:igs 

was  sunk  ; 
Its  principles  each  to  a  prejudice 

shrunk. 
Down  the  path  of  a  life  that  led  no- 
where he  trod. 
Where  his  whims  were  his  guides, 

and  his  will  was  his  god. 
And  his  pastime  his  pm-pose. 

From  boyhood  possessed 
Of  inherited  wealth,  he  had  learned 

to  invest 
Both  his  wealth  and  those  passions 

wealth  frees  from  the  cage 
WLich  penury  Jocks,  iu  each  vice  of 

an  age. 


All  the  virtues  of    which,   by  the 
creed  he  revered. 

Were  to  him  illegitimate. 

Thus,  he  appeared 

To  the  world  what  the  world  chose 
to  have  him  appear,— 

The  frivolous  tyrant  of  Fashion,  a 
mere 

Reformer  in  coats,  cards,  and  car- 
riages  !    Still 

'Twas  this  vigor  of  nature,  and  ten- 
sion of  will. 

That  found  for  the  first  time — per- 
chance for  the  last — 

In  Lucile  what  they  lacked  yet  to 
free  from  the  Past, 

Force,  and  faith,  in  the  Future. 

And  so,  in  his  mind, 

To  the  anguish  of  losing  the  woman 
was  joined 

The  terror  of  missing  his  life's  des- 
tination. 

Which  in  her  had  its  mystical  repre- 
sentation. 

ni. 
And  truly,  the  thought  of  it,  scaring 

him,  passed 
O'er  his  heart,  while  he  now  through 

the  twilight  rode  fast. 
As  a  shade  from  the  wing  of  some 

great  bird  obscene 
In  a  wild  silent  land  may  be  sud- 
denly seen. 
Darkening  over  the  sands,  where  it 

startles  and  scares 
Some  traveller  strayed  in  the  waste 

miawares, 
So  that  thought  more    than    once 

darkened  over  his  heart 
For  a  moment,  and  rapidly  seemed 

to  depart. 
Fast  and  furious  he  rode  through  the 

thickets  which  rose 
Up  the  shaggy  hillside  ;    and    the 

quarrelling  crows 
Clanged  above  him,  and  clustering 

down  the  dim  air 
Dropped  into  the  dark  woods.     By 

fits  here  and  there 
Shepherd  fires  faintly  gleamed  froiP 

the  valleys.    6,  hov/ 


LUCILE. 


63 


He  envied  the  wings  of  each  wild 

bird,  as  now 
He  urged  the  steed  over  the  dizzy 

ascent 
Of  the  mountains  I    Behind  him  a 

murmiu*  was  sent 
From  the  torrent,  —  Before  him  a 

sound  from  the  tracts 
Of  the  woodlands  that  waved  o'er 

the  wild  cataracts, 
And  the  loose  earth  and  loose  stones 

rolled  momently  down 
From  the  hoofs  of  his  steed  to  abys- 
ses unknown. 
The  red  day  had  fallen  beneath  the 

black  woods, 
And  the  Powers  of  the  night  through 

the  vast  solitudes 
Walked  abroad  and  conversed  with 

each  other.     The  trees 
Wei'fe  in  soimd  and  in  motion,  and 

muttered  like  seas 
111   Elfland.     The  road  through  the 

forest  was  hollowed. 
On  he  sped  through  the  darkness,  as 

though  he  were  followed 
Fast,  fast  by  the  Erl  king  ! 

The  wild  wizard-work 
Of  the  forest  at  last  opened  sharp, 

o'er  the  fork 
Of  a  savage  ravine,  and  behind  the 

black  stems 
Of  the  last  trees,  whose  leaves  in  the 

light  gleamed  like  gems. 
Broke  the  broad  moon  above  the 

voluminous 
Rock-chaos,  —  the  Hecate  of  that 

Tartarus ! 
With  his  horse  reeking  white,  he  at 

last  reached  the  door 
Of  a  small  mountain  inn,  on  the 

brow  of  a  hoar 
Craggy  promontory,  o'er  a  fissure  as 

grim, 
Through  which,  ever  roaring,  there 

leaped  o'er  the  limb 
Of  the  rent  rock  a  torrent  of  water, 

from  sight, 
Into  pools  that  were    feeding   the 

roots  of  the  night, 
A   balcony   hung    o'er  the  water. 

Above 


In  a  glimmering  casement  a  phade 
seemed  to  move. 

At  the  door  the  old  negress  was  nod- 
ding her  head 

As  he  re&,ched  it.      **My  mistress 
awaits  you,"  she  said. 

And  up  the  rude  stairway  of  creak- 
ing pine  rafter 

He  followed  her  silent.    A  few  mo 
ments  after. 

His  heart  almost  stunned  him,  his 
head  seemed  to  reel. 

For  a  door  closed — Luvois  was  alone 
with  Lucile. 

IV. 

In  a  gray  travelling  dress,  her  daik 

hair  unconfined 
Streaming  o'er  it,  and  tossed  now 

and  then  by  the  wind 
From    the  lattice,   that  waved  the 

dull  flame  in  a  spire 
From  a  brass  lamp  before  her, — a 

faint  hectic  ffre 
On  her  cheek,  to  her   eyes  lent  the 

lustre  of  fever. 
They  seemed  to  have  wept  them- 
selves wider  than  ever. 
Those  dark  eyes,— so  dark  and  so 

deep  ! 

*' You  relent? 
And  your  plans  have  been  changed 

by  the  letter  I  sent  ?  " 
There  his  voice  sank,  borne  down 

by  a  strong  inward  strife. 

Lucile. 

Your   letter  I   yes,    Duke.     For  it 

threatens  man's  life,— 
Woman's  honor. 

LUTOIS. 

The  last,  madam,  not  I 

Lucile. 

Both.    I  glance 
At  your  own  words  ;  blush,  son  of 

the  knighthood  of  France, 
As  I  read  tliem  I    You  say  in  this 
letter  . 

"IJknoto 


6d 


LUCILE. 


Why  noio  you  refuse  me  ;  His  {is  it 

not  so  9) 
For  the  man  who  has  trifled  before, 

wantonly, 
And  now  trifles  again  with  the  heart 

you  deny 
To  myself.    But  he  shall  not  I    By 

man^s  last  wild  law, 
I  will  seize  on  the  right  (the  right, 

Due  de  Luvois  !) 
To  avenge  for  you,  woman,  the  past, 

and  to  give 
To  the  future  its  freedom.      That 

man  shall  not  live 
To  make  you  as  wretched  as  you 

have  made  me  I " 

Luvois. 
Well,  madam,  in  those  words  what 

word  do  you  see 
That  threatens  the  honor  of  woman? 

LUCILE. 

See  !  .  .  .  what, 

What  word,   do   you    ask?    Every 
word  1  would  you  not, 

Had  I  taken  your  hand  thus,  have 
felt  that  your  name 

Was  soiled  and  dishonored  by  more 
than  mere  shame 

If  the  woman  that  bore  it  had  first 
been  the  cause 

Of  the  crime  which  in  these  words 
is  menaced  ?    You  pause  ! 

Woman's  honor,  you  ask  ?   Is  there, 
sir,  no  dishonor 

In  the  smile  of  a  woman,  when  men, 
gazing  on  her. 

Can    shudder,    and    say,   "In  that 
smile  is  a  grave?" 

No  !  you  can  have  no  cause,  Duke, 
for  no  right  you  have 

In  the  contest  you  menace.     That 
contest  but  draws 

Every  right  into  ruin.     By  all  hu- 
man laws 

Of  man's  heart  I  forbid  it,  by  all 
sanctities 

Of  man's  social  honor  I 

The  Duke  drooped  his  eyes. 

**I  obey  you,"  he  said,  "  but  let  wo- 
man beware 


How  she  plays  fasfc  and  loose  tHus 

with  human  despair, 
And    the    storm    in    man's    heart. 

Madam,  yours  was  the  right, 
When  you  saw  that  I  hoped,  to  ex- 
tinguish hope  quite, 
But  you  should  from  the  first  have 

done  this,  for  1  feel 
That  you  knew  from  the  first  that  I 

loved  you." 

Lncile 
This    sudden   reproach  seemed    to 

startle. 

She  raised 
A  slow,  wistful  regard  to  his  feat- 
ures, and  gazed 
On  them  silent  awhile.     His  own 

looks  were  downcast 
Through  her  heart,  whence  its  first 

wild  alarm  was  now  passed, 
Pity  crept,  and  perchance  o'er  her 

conscience  a  tear. 
Falling  softly,  awoke  it. 

However  severe, 
Were  they  unjust,  these  sudden  up- 

braidings,  to  her? 
Had  she  lightly  misconstrued  this 

man's  character, 
WTiich  had  seemed,  even  when  most 

impassioned  it  seemed, 
Too  self-conscious  to  lose  all  in  love  ? 

Had  she  deemed 
That  this  airy,  gay,  insolent  man  of 

the  world, 
So  proud  of  the  place  the  world  gave 

him,  held  furled 
In  his  bosom  no  passion  which  once 

shaken  wide 
Might  tug,  till  it  snapped,  that  erect 

lofty  pride  ? 
Were  those  elements  in  him,  which 

once  roused  to  strife 
Overthrow    a    whole    nature,    and 

change  a  whole  life  ? 
There  are    two  kinds  of  strength. 

One,  the  strength  of  the  river 
Which  through    continents   pushes 

its  pathway  forever 
To  fling  its  fond  heart  in  the  sea  ; 

if  it  lose 
This,  the  aim  of  its  life,  it  is  lost  to 

its  use. 


LUCILB. 


65 


It  goes  mad,  is  diffused  into  deluge, 

and  dies. 
The  other,  the  strength  of  the  sea  ; 

wiiich  suppUes 
Its  deep  Hfe  from  mysterious  sources, 

and  draws 
The  river's  hfe  into  its  own  life,  by 

laws 
Which  it  heeds  not.     The  difference 

in  each  case  is  this  : 
The  river  is  lost,   if  the  ocean   it 

miss  ; 
If  the  sea  miss  the  river,  what  mat- 
ter ?    The  sea 
Is  the  sea  still,  forever.     Its  deep 

heart  will  be 
Self-sufficing,  unconscious  of  loss  as 

of  yore  ; 
Its  sources  are  infinite  ;  still  to  the 

shore, 
With  no  diminution  of  pride,  it  will 

say, 
*'  I  am  here  ;  I,  the  sea  !  stand  aside, 

and  make  way  !  " 
Was  his  love,  then,  the  love  of  the 

river  ?  and  she. 
Had  she  taken  that  love  for  the  love 

of  the  sea  ? 


At  that  thought,   from  her  aspect 

whatever  had  been 
Stern   or  haughty  departed  ;    and, 

himibled  in  mien, 
She  approached  him,  and  brokenly 

murmured,  as  though 
To  herself  more  than  him,  "Was  I 

wrong  ?  is  it  so  ? 
Hear  me,  Duke  !  you  must  feel  that, 

whatever  you  deem 
Your  right  to  reproach  me  in  this, 

your  esteem 
I  may  claim  on  one  ground, — I  at 

least  am  sincere. 
You  say  that  to  me  from  the  first  it 

was  clear 
That  you  loved  me.     But  what  if 

this  imowledge  were  known 
At  a  moment  in  life  when  I  felt  most 

alone, 
And  least  able  to  be  so  ?  A  moment, 

in  fact, 


When  I  strove  from  one  haunting 

regret  to  retract 
And  emancipate  life,  and  once  more 

to  fulfil 
Woman's     destinies,     duties,    and 

hopes  ?  would  you  still 
So  bitterly  blame    me,   Eugene  de 

Luvois, 
If  I  hoped  to  see  all  this,  or  deemed 

that  I  saw 
For  a  moment  the  promise  of  this, 

in  the  plighted 
Affection  of    one  who,  in  nature, 

imited 
So  much  that  from  others  affection 

might  claim 
If  only  affection  were  free  ?    Do  you 

blame 
The    hope    of    that    moment  ?     I 

deemed  my  heart  free 
From  all,  saving  sorrow.  .  I  deemed 

that  in  me 
There  was  yet  ijtrength  to  mould  it 

once  more  to  my  will, 
To  uplift  it  once  more  to  my  hops. 

Do  you  still 
Blame  me,  Duke,  that  I  did  not  then 

bid  you  refrani 
From    hope  ?     alas !     I    too    then 

hoped  ! " 

Luvois. 

O,  again, 

Yet   agam,   say  that  thrice-blessed 

word  !  say,  Lucile, 
That  you  then  deigned  to  hope 

Lucile. 
Yes  I  to  hope  I  could  feel. 
And  could  give  to  you,  that  without 

which,  all  else  given 
Were  but  to  deceive,  and  to  injure 

you  even  : — 
A  heart  free  from  thoughts  of  anoth- 
er.    Say,  then, 
Do  you  blame  that  one  hope  ? 

Luvois. 
O  Lucile  I 

"  Say  ae^ain," 
She  resumed,  gazing  down,  and  with 
faltering  tone, 


66 


LUCTLE. 


'•  Do  you  blame  me  that,  when  I  at 

last  had  to  own 
To  my  heart  that  the  hope  it  had 

cherished  was  o'er, 
And  forever,   I  said  tq  you  then, 

*  Hope  no  more  ? ' 
I  myself  hoped  no  more!" 

With  but  ill-suppressed  wrath 
The  Duke  ansv/ered  .  .  .  *'  What, 

then !  he  recrosses  your  path 
This  man,  and  you  have  but  to  see 

him,  despite 
Of  his  troth  to  another,  to  take  back 

that  light 
Worthless  heart  to  your  own,  which 

he  wronged  years  ago!" 
Lucile  faintly,  brokenly  murmured, 

.  .  .  "No!  no! 
'Tis  not  that— but  alas!— but  I  can- 
not conceal 
That  I  have  not  forgotten  the  past— 

but  I  feel 
That  I  cannot  accept  all  these  gifts 

on  your  part, — 
In  return  for  what  ...  ah,  Duke, 

what  is  it  ?  ...  a  heart 
Which  is  only  a  ruin!  " 

With  words  warm  and  wild, 
*'  Though  a  ruin  it  be,  trust  me  yet 

to  rebuild 
And    restore    it,"    Luvois    cried  ; 

**  though  ruined  it  be, 
Since  so  dear  is  that  ruin,  ah,  yield 

it  to  me!" 
He    approached    her.     She    shrank 

back.     The  grief  in  her  eyes 
Answered,  "No! " 
An  emotion  more  fierce  seemed  to 

rise 
And  to  break  into  flame,  as  though 

fired  by  the  light 
Of  that  look,  in  his  heart.    He  ex- 
claimed, "  Am  I  right  ? 
You  reject  me  /  accept  lilm  f  " 

"  I  have  not  done  so," 
She   said    firmly.     He  hoarsely  re- 
sumed, "Not  yet, —no! 
But  can  you  with  accents  as  firm 

promise  me 
That  you  will  not  accept  him  ?  " 

"Accept?    Is  he  free? 
Free  to  offer  ?  "  she  flaid. 


"  You  evade  me,  Lucile," 
He  replied;  "  ah,  you  will  not  avow 

what  you  feel ! 
He  might  make  himself  free  ?    O, 

you  blush, — turn  away! 
Dare  you  openly  look  in  my  face, 

lady,  say! 
While  you  deign    to   reply  to  one 

question  from  me  ? 
I  may  hope  not,  you  tell  me:  but  teli 

me,  may  he  ? 
What!  silent  ?    I  alter  my  question. 

If  quite 
Freed  in  faith  from  this  troth,  might 

he  hope  then  ?  " 

"  He  might," 
She  said  softly. 

VI. 

Those  two  whispered  words,  in  his 

breast. 
As  he  heard  them,  in  one  maddening 

moment  releast 
All  that's  evil  and  fierce  in  man's 

nature,  to  crush 
And  extinguish   in  man  all  that'& 

good.     In  the  rush 
Of  wild  jealousy,  all  the  fierce  pas- 
sions that  waste 
And  darken  and  devastate  intellect, 

chased 
From  its  realm  human  reason.    The 

wild  animal 
In  the  bosom  of  man  was  set  free. 

And  of  all 
Human  passions  the  fiercest,  fierce 

jealousy,  fierce 
As  the  fire,  and  more  wild  than  the 

whirlwind,  to  pierce 
And  to  rend,  rushed  upon  him ;  fierce 

jealousy,  swelled 
By  all  passions  bred  from  it,  and 

ever  impelled 
To  involve  all  things  else  in  the  an- 
guish witnin  it. 
And  on  others  infiict  its  own  pangs ! 
At  that  minute 
What  passed  through  his  mind,  who 

shall  say  ?  who  may  tell 
The  dark  thoughts  of  man's  heart, 

which  the  red  glare  of  hell 
Can  iDiunine  alone  ? 


incTin. 


"7 


He  stared  wildly  aroimd 

That  lone  place,  so  lonely !  That  si- 
lence I  no  sound 

Reached  that  room,  through  the  dark 
evening  air,  save  the  drear 

Drip  and  roar  of  the  cataract  cease- 
less and  near! 

It  was  midnight  all  round  on  the 
weird  silent  weather; 

Deep  midnight  in  him !  They  two, — 
lone  and  together, 

Himself,  and  thai;  woman  defence- 
less hefore  him ! 

The  triumph  and  hliss  of  his  rival 
dashed  o'er  him. 

The  abyss  of  his  own  black  despair 
seemed  to  ope 

At  his  feet,  with  that  awful  exclu- 
sion of  hope 

Which  Dante  read  over  the  city  of 
doom. 

All  the  Tarquin  passed  into  his  soul 
in  the  gloom, 

And,  uttering  words  he  dared  never 
recall, 

Words  of  insult  and  menace,  he 
thundered  down  all 

The  brewed  storm-cloud  within  him: 
its  Hashes  scorched  blind 

His  own  senses.  His  spirit  was 
driven  on  the  wind 

Of  a  reckless  emotion  beyond  his 
control ; 

A  torrent  seemed  loosened  within 
him.     His  soul 

Surged  up  from  that  caldron  of  pas- 
sion tliat  hissed 

And  seethed  in  his  heart. 

vn. 

He  had  thrown,  and  had  missed 
His  last  stake. 

VIII. 

For,  transfigured,   she  rose  from 

the  place 
Where  he  rested  o' era  wed:  a  saint's 

scorn  on  her  face ; 
Such  a  dread  Tuade  retro  was  written 

in  light 
On  her  forehead,  the  fiend  would 

himself,  at  that  sight, 


Have  sunk  back  abashed  to  perdi- 
tion.    I  know 

n  Lucretia  at  Tarquin  but  once  had 
looked  so. 

She    had    needed    no    dagger  next 
morning. 

She  rose 

And  swept  to  the  door,   like  that 
phantom  the  snows 

Feel  at  nightfall  sweep  o'er  them, 
when  daylight  is  gone, 

And  Caucasus  is  "with  the  moon  all 
alone. 

Tliere  she  paused  ;  and,  as  though 
from  immeasurable, 

Insurpassable    distance,    she    mur- 
mured— 

''Farewell! 

We,  alas !  have  mistaken  each  other. 
Once  more 

Illusion,  to-night,  in  my  lifetime  is 
o'en 

Due  de  Luvois,  adieu!" 

From  tlie  heart-breaking  gloom 

Of  that  vacant,  reproachful,  and  des- 
olate room. 

He  felt  she  was  gone, — gone  forever ! 

IX. 

No  word, 

The  sharpest  that  ever  was  edged  by 
a  sword. 

Could  have  pierced  to  his  heart  with 
such  keen  accusation 

As  the  silence,  the  sudden  profound 
isolation. 

In  which  he  remained. 

"  O,  return;  I  repent!" 

He  exclaimed ;  but  no  sound  through 
the  stillness  was  sent. 

Save  the  roar  of  the  water,  in  an- 
swer to  him. 

And  the  beetle  that,  sleeping,  yet 
hummed  her  night-hymn  : 

An  indistinct  anthem,  that  troubled 
the  air 

With  a  searching,  and  wistful,  and 
questioning  prayer. 

"Return,"  sung  the  wandering  in- 
sect.    The  roar 

Of  the  waters  replied,  "Nevermoro' 
aeyerinore  I". 


68 


LUCILE. 


Ho  walked  to  the  window.  The 
spray  on  his  brow 

Was  flung  cold  from  the  whirlpools 
of  water  below; 

The  frail  wooden  balcony  shook  in 
the  sound 

Of  the  torrent.  The  mountains 
gloomed  sullenly  round 

A  candle  one  ray  from  a  closed  case- 
ment flung. 

O'er  the  dim  balustrade  all  bewil- 
dered he  hung, 

Vaguely  watching  the  broken  and 
shimmering  blink 

Of  the  stars  on  the  veering  and  vitre- 
ous brink 

Of  that  snake-like  prone  column  of 
water;  and  listing 

Aloof  o'er  the  languors  of  air  the  per- 
sisting 

Sharp  horn  of  the  gray  gnat.  Before 
he  relinquished 

His  unconscious  employment,  that 
light  was  extinguished. 

Wheels,  at  last,  from  the  inn  door 
aroused  him.     He  ran 

Down  the  stairs ;  reached  the  door — 
just  to  see  her  depart. 

Down  the  jnountain  the  carriage  was 
speeding. 

X. 

His  heart 
Pealed  the  knell  of  its  last  hope.  He 

rushed  on;  but  whither 
He    knew    not — on,   into  the    dark 

cloudy  weather — 
The  midnight— the  moimtains— on, 

over  the  shelf 
Of  the  precipice— on,   still  —  away 

from  himself ! 
Till,  exhausted,   he  sank  'mid  the 

dead  leaves  and  moss 
At  the  mouth  of  the  forest.     A  glim- 
mering cross 
Of  gray  stone  stood  for  prayer  by  the 

woodside.     He  sank 
Prayerless,   powerless,  down   at   its 

base,  'mid  the  dank 
Weeds    and    grasses;    his  face    hid 

diuonirst  tlioia.    He  knew 


That  the  night  had  divided  his  whok 
life  in  two. 

Behind  him  a  Past  that  was  over  for- 
ever; [deavor 

Before  him  a  Future  devoid  of  en- 

And  purpose.     He  felt  a  remorse  for 
the  one. 

Of  the  other  a  fear.     What  remained! 
to  be  done?. 

Wliither  now  should  he  turn  ?    Turn 
again,  as  before. 

To  his  old  easy,  careless  existence  of! 
yore 

He  could  not.     He  felt  that  for  bet- 
ter or  worse 

A  change  had  passed  o'er  him;  an; 
angry  remorse 

Of  his  own  frantic  failure  and  error 
had  marred 

Such  a  refuge  forever.     The  future 
seemed  barred 

By  the  corpse  of  a  dead  hope  o'er 
which  he  must  tread 

To  attain  it.    Life's  vvilderness  round 
him  was  spread. 

What  clew  there  to  cling  by  ? 

He  clung  by  a  name 

To  a  dynasty  fallen  forever.  He  came 

Of    an    old    princely    house,    true; 
through  change  to  the  race 

And  the  sword  of  Saint  Louis,- 
faith  'twere  disgrace 

To  relinquish,  and  folly  to  live  for? 
Nor  less 

Was  his  ancient  religion  (once  potent 
to  bless 

Or  to  ban ;  and  the  crozier  his  ances- 
tors kneeled 

To  adore,  when  they  fought  for  thfe 
Cross,  in  hard  field, 

With  the  Crescent)  become  ere  it: 
reached  him,  tradition ; 

A  mere  faded  badge  of  a  social  posi- 
tion; 

A   thing  to  retain  and  say  nothing 
about,  ', 

Lest,  if  used,  it  should  draw  degrada-^ 
tion  from  doubt. 

Thus,  the  first  time  he  sought  them,* 
the  creeds  of  his  youth 

Wliolly  failed  the  strong  needs  of  hie 
manhood,  in  truth  I 


LVniLE. 


^\ 


And  beyond  them,  what  region  of 

refuge  ?  what  field 
For  employment,  this  civilized  age, 

did  it  yield, 
In  that  civilized  land  ?  or  to  thought  ? 

or  to  action  ? 
Blind  deliriums,  bewildered  and  end- 
less distraction! 
Not  even  a  desert,  not  even  the  cell 
Of  a  hermit  to  flee  to,  wherein  he 

might  quell 
The  v/ild  devil-instincts  which  now, 

unreprest, 
Rim  riot  through  that  ruined  world 

in  his  breast. 


So  he  lay  there,  like  Lucifer,  fresh 
from  the  sight 

Of  a  heaven  scaled  and  lost;  in  the 
wide  arms  of  night 

O'er  the  howling  abysses  of  nothing- 
ness !    There 

As  he  lay,  Nature's  deep  voice  was 
teaching  him  prayer ; 

But  what  had  he  to  pray  to  ? 

The  winds  in  the  woods 

The  voices  abroad  o'er  those  vast 
solitudes, 

Were  in  commune  all  round  with  the 
invisible  Power 

That  walked  the  dim  world  by  Him- 
self at  that  hour. 

But  their  language  he  had  not  yet 
learned — in  despite 

Of  the  much  he  had  learned — or  for- 
gotten it  quite. 

With  its  once  native  accents.     Alas ! 
what  had  he 

To  add  to  that  deep-toned  sublime 
symphony 

Of  thanksgiving  ?  .  .  .  A  fiery-finger 
was  still 

Scorching  into  his  heart  some  dread 
sentence.     His  will, 

Like  a  wind  that  is  put  to  no  purpose, 
was  wild 

i  At  its  work  of  destruction  within 
him.     The  child 

Of  an  infidel  age,  he  had  been  his 
own  god, 

His  own  devil. 


He  sat  on  the  damp  mountain  sod, 

And  stared  sullenly  up  at  the  dark 
sky. 

The  clouds 

Had    heaped  themselves    over    thf^ 
bare  west  in  crowds 

Of  misshapen,  incongruous  portents. 
A  green 

Streak    of    dreary,    cold,    luminous 
ether,  between 

The  base  of  their  black  barricades, 
and  the  ridge 

Of  the  grim  world,  gleamed  ghastly, 
as  under  some  bridge. 

Cyclop-sized,  in  a  city  of  ruins  over- 
thrown 

By  sieges  forgotten,  some  river,  un- 
known 

And  unnamed,  widens  on  into  deso- 
late lands 

While  he  gazed,  that  cloud-city  in- 
visible hands 

Dismantled  and  rent;  and  revealed, 
through  a  loop 

In  the  breached  dark,  the  blemished 
and  half-broken  hoop 

Of  the  moon,  which  soon  silently 
sank;  and  anon 

The  whole  supernatural  pageant  was 
gone. 

The  wide  night,  discomforted,  con- 
scious of  loss, 

Darkened  round  him.     One  object 

alone — that  gray  cross- 
Glimmered  faint  on  the  dark.     Gaz- 
ing up,  he  descried 

Through  the  void  air,   its  desolate 
arms  outstretched  wide, 

As  though  to  embrace  him. 

He  turned  from  the  sight. 

Set  his  face  to  the  darkness,  and  fled. 

xn. 

When  the  light 
Of  the  dawn  grayly  flickered  and 

glared  on  the  spent 
Wearied  ends  of  the  night,  like  a 

hope  that  is  sent 
To  the  need  of  some  grief  when  its 

need  is  the  sorest, 
He  was  sullenly  riding  across  tho 

dark  forest 


10 


LUCILM. 


Towards  Serchon. 

Thus  riding,  with  eyes  of  defiance 
Set  against  the  young  day,  as  dis- 
claiming alliance 
With  aught  that  the  day  hrings  to 

man.  he  perceived 
Faintly,  suddenly,  fleetingly,  through 

the  damp-leaved 
Autumn    branches    that  put   forth 

gaunt  arms  on  his  way, 
The  face  of  a  man  pale  and  wistful, 

and  gray 
With  the    gray  glare    of    morning. 

Eugene  de  Luvois, 
With  the  sense  of  a  strange  second 

sight,  when  he  saw 
That   phantom-iike    face,   could   at 

once  recognize. 
By  the  sole  instinct  now  left  to  guide 

him,  the  eyes 
Of  his   rival,    though    Seeting    the 

vision  and  dim. 
With  a  stern  sad  inquiry  fixed  keen- 
ly on  him. 
And,  to  meet  it,  a  lie  leaped  at  once 

to  his  own ; 
A  lie  born  of  that  lying  darkness  now 

grown 
Over  all  in  his  nature !    He  answered 

that  gaze 
With  a  look  which,  if  ever  a  man's 

look  conveys 
More  intensely  than  words  what  a 

man  means,  conveyed 
Beyond  doubt  in  its  smile  an  an- 
nouncement which  said, 
"I  Aave   triumx)hed.     The  question 

your  eyes  would  imply 
Comes  too  late,  Alfred  Vargrave  !  " 
And  so  he  rode  by, 
And  rode  on,  and  rode  gayly,  and 

rode  out  of  sight, 
Leaving  that  look  behind   him  to 

rankle  and  bite. 

XIII. 

And  it  bit,  and  it  rankled. 

XIV. 

Lord  Alfred,  scarce  knowing, 
Or  choosing,  or  heeding  the  way  he 
was  going, 


By  one  wild  hope  impelled,  by  one  \ 

wild  fear  pursued,  \ 

And  led  by  one  instinct,  wliich  seem-  '- 

ed  to  exclude 
From  his  mind  every  human  sens;i- 

tion,  save  one — 
The  torture  of  doubt, — had  strayed 

moodily  on,  I 

Down  the  highway  deserted,   that  ' 

evening  in  which  I 

With    the    Duke    he    had    parted  ; 

strayed  on,  through  the  rich 
Haze  of  sunset,  or  into  "the  gradual  ' 

night,  ; , 

Which    darkened,    unnoticed,     the 

land  from  his' sight. 
Toward  Saint  Saviour  ;  nor  did  the 

changed  aspect  of  all 
The  wild  scenery  round  him  avail  to 

recall        "  (tions,  until, 

To  his  senses  their  normal  percep- 
As  he  stood  on  the  black  shaggy 

brow  of  the  hill 
At  the  mouth    of    the    forest,   the 

moon,  which  had  hung 
Two  dark  hours  in  a  cloud,  slipped 

on  fire  from  among 
The  rent  vapors,  and  sunk  o'er  the 

ridge  of  the  world. 
Then  he  lifted  his  eyes,  and  saw 

round  him  unfurled. 
In  one    moment    of    splendor,   the 

leagues  of  dark  trees. 
And  the  long  rocky  line  of  the  wild 

Pyrenees. 
And  he  knew  by  the  milestone  scored 

rough  on  the  face 
Of  the  bare  rock,  he  was  but  two 

hours  from  the  place 
Where  Lucile  and  Luvois  must  have 

met.    This  same  track 
The  Duke  must  have  traversed,  per- 
force, to  get  back 
To  Serchon  ;  not  yet  then  the  Duke 

had  returned ! 
He  listened,  he  looked  up  the  daric, 

but  discerned 
Not  a  trace,  not  a  sound  of  a  horse 

by  the  way. 
He  knew  that  the  night  was  ap- 

proaclang  to  day. 


LUCILE. 


71 


He  resolved  to  proceed  to  Saint 
Saviour.     The  morn 

Wliicli,  at  last,  througli  the  forest 
broke  chill  aud  forlorn, 

Revealed  to  him,  riding  toward  Ser- 

chon,  the  Diilce. 
Twas  then  that  the  two  men  ex- 
changed look  for  look. 

XV. 

And  the  Duke's  rankled  in  him. 

XVI. 

He  rushed  on.     He  tore 
His  path  through  the  thicket.    He 

reached  the  inn  door, 
Roused  the  yet  drowsing  porter,  re- 
luctant to  rise, 
And  inquired  for  the  Cotmtess.  The 

man  rubbed  his  eyes. 
The  Countess  was  gone.     And  the 

Duke  ? 

The  man  stared 
A  sleepy  inquiry. 

With  accents  that  beared 
The  man's  dull  sense  awake,  "He, 

the  stranger,"  he  cried, 
"  Who  had  been  there  that  night ! " 

The  man  grinned  and  repHed, 
With  a  vacant  intelligence,  '*  He,  O 

ay,  ay! 
He  went  after  the  lady." 

Xo  further  reply 
Could  he  give.     Alfred  Vargrave  de- 
manded no  more, 
Flung  a  coin  to   the  man,  and  so 

tiuned  from  the  door. 
"  What !  the  Duke  then  the  night  in 

that  lone  inn  had  passed  ? 
In  that  lone  inn — with  her! "     Was 

that  look  he  had  cast 
When  they  met  in  the  forest,  that 

look  which  remained 
On  his  mind  with  its  terrible  smile, 

th:is  explained  ? 

XVII. 

The  day  was  half  tm-ned  to  the  even- 
ing, before 

He  re-entered  Serchon,  with  a  heart 
sick  and  sore. 

In  the  midst  of  a  light  crowd  of  bab- 
blers, his  look, 


By  their  voices  attracted,  distrnguiah- 

ed  the  Duke, 
Gay,  insolent,  noisy,  with  eyes  spark- 
ling bright,  [ous. 
With  laughter,  shrill,  airy,  continu- 

Right 
Through  the    throng    Alfred  Var- 
grave, with  swift  sombre 

stride, 
Ghded  on.     The  Duke  noticed  him, 

turned,  stepped  aside. 
And,   cordially  grasping  his  hand, 

whispered  low, 
*'  O,  how    right    have    you    been  I 

There  can  never  be — no, 
Never — any  more  contest   between 

us!    Milord, 
Let  us  henceforth  be  friends  !  " 

Having  uttered  that  word, 
He  turned  lightly  round  on  his  heel, 

and  again 
His  gay  laughLer  v/as  heard,  echoed 

loud  by  that  train 
Of  his  yoimg  imitators. 

Lord  Alfred  stood  still, 
Rooted,   sttmncd  to  the  spot.     He 

felt  weary  and  ill. 
Out  of  heart  with  his  own  heart,  and 

sick  to  the  soul. 
With  a  dull,  stifling  aijgulsh  he  could 

not  control. 
Does  he  hear  in  a  dream,  through 

the  buzz  of  the  crowd. 
The  Duke's  blithe  associates,  bab- 
bling aloud 
Some  comment  upon  his  gay  humor 

that  day  ? 
He  never  w^as  gayer:  what  makes 

him  so  gay  ? 
'Tis,   no  dottbt,  say  the   flatterers, 

flattering  in  tune. 
Some  vestal  whose  virtue  no  tongue 

dare  impugn 
Has  at  last  found  a  Mars, — who,  of 

coiuse,  shall  be  nameless, 
The  vestal  that  yields  to  Mars  onhj 

is  blameless  \ 
Hark!  hears  he  a  name  which,  thus 

syllabled,  stirs 
All  bis  heart  into  tumult  ?  .  .  .  LU- 

cile  de  Nevers 


72 


LUCILE. 


With  the  Duke's  coupled  gayly,  in 

some  laughing,  light, 
Free  allusion  ?     Not  so    as  might 

give  him  the  right 
To    turn    fiercely    round    on    the 

speaker,  but  yet 
To  a  trite  and  irreverent  compliment 

set  ! 

XYin. 

Slowly,  slowly,  usurping  that  place 
in  his  soul 

Where  the  thought  of  Lucile  was 
enshrined,  did  there  roll 

Back  again,  back  again,  on  its 
smooth  downward  course 

O'er  his  nature,  with  gathered  mo- 
mentum and  force, 

The  wokld. 


"No!"  he  muttered,   ''she  cannot 

have  sinned ! 
True!  women  there  are  (self-named 

women  of  mind  !  ) 
Who  love  rather  liberty  —  liberty, 

yes  ! 
To  choose  and  to  leave — than  the 

legalized  stress 
Of  the  lovingest  marriage.     But  she 

— is  she  so  ? 
I  will  not  believe  it.    Lucile  ?   O  no, 

no  ! 
Not  Lucile  ! 
"  But    the    world  ?    and,   ah,   what 

would  it  say  ? 
O   the  look  of  that  man,   and  his 

laughter,  to-day  ! 
The    gossip's    light    question  !    the 

slanderous  jest  ! 
She  is  right !  no,  we  could  not  be 

happy.     'Tis  best 
As  it  is.     I  will  write  to  her, — write, 

O  my  heart  ! 
And  accept  her  farewell.     Our  fare- 
well !  must  we  part, — 
Part  thus,  then, — forever,   Lucile  ? 

Is  it  so  ? 
Yes  !  I  feel  it.      We  could  not  be 

happy,  I  know. 
"Jwft?  a  dream  I  we  must  waken  I " 


XX. 

With  head  bowed,  as  though 

By  the  weight  of  the  heart's  resigna- 
tion, and  slow 

Moody  footsteps,  he  turned  to  his 
inn. 

Drawn  apart 

From  the  gate,  in   the  court-yard, 
and  ready  to  start. 

Postboys     moimted,     portmanteaus 
packed  up  and  made  fast, 

A  travelling-carriage,  unnoticed,  he 
passed. 

He  ordered  his  horse  to  be  ready 
anon: 

Sent,  and  paid,  for  the  reckoning, 
and  slowly  passed  on, 

And  ascended  the  staircase,  and  en- 
tered his  room. 

It  was  twilight.     The  chamber  was 
dark  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  evening.    He  listlessly  kindled 
a  light 

On  the  mantel-piece;  there  a  large 
card  caught  his  sight, — 

A  large  card,  a  stout  card,  well  print- 
ed and  plain. 

Nothing  flourishing,  flimsy,  afl[ected, 
or  vain. 

It  gave  a  respectable  look  to  the  slab 

That  it  lay  on.     The  name  was — 


Sir  Ridley  MacNab. 


Full  familiar  to  him  was  the  name 
that  he  saw. 

For  'twas  that  of   his    own  future 
imcle-in-law, 

Mrs.  Darcy's  rich  brother,  the  bank- 
er, well-known 

As  wearing  the  longest-phylacteried 
gown 

Of  all  the  rich  Pharisees  England; 
can  boast  of ;  ' 

A  shrewd  Puritan  Scot,  whose  sharp 
wits  made  the  mQSt  of 


LUCILE. 


This  world  and  the  next  ;  having 
largely  invested 

Not  only  where  treasure  is  never 
molested 

By  thieves,  moth,  or  rust;  but  on  this 
earthly  ball 

Where  interest  was  high,  and  secur- 
ity small, 

Of  mankind  there  was  never  a  theory 
yet 

Not  by  some  individual  instance  up- 
set: 

And  so  to  that  sorrowful  verse  of  the 
Psalm 

Wliich  declares  that  the  wicked  ex- 
pand like  the  palm 

In  a  world  where  the  righteous  are 
stunted  and  pent, 

A  cheering  exception  did  Ridley  pre- 
sent. 

Like  the  worthy  of  Uz,  Heaven  pros- 
pered his  piety. 

The  leader  of  every  religious  society, 

Christian  knowledge  he  labored 
through  life  to  promote 

With  personal  profit,  and  knew  how 
to  quote 

Both  the  Stocks  and  the  Scripture, 
with  equal  advantage 

To  himself  and  admiring  friends,  in 
this  Cant- Age. 


Whilst  over  this  card  Alfred  vacantly 
brooded, 

A  waiter  his  head  through  the  door- 
wav  protruded; 

"Sir   Eidley  MacXab  with  Milord 
wished  to  speak." 

Alfred  Vargrave    could    feel    there 
were  tears  on  his  cheek: 

lie  brushed  them  away  \vith  a  ges- 
ture of  pride. 

He  glanced  at  the  glass ;  when  his 
own  face  he  eyed, 

He  was  scared  by  its  pallor.     Inclin- 
ing his  head. 

He  with  tones  calm,  unshaken,  and 
silvery,  said, 
Sir  Ridley  may  enter." 

Jn  three  minutes  more 


That  benign  apparition  appeared  at 
the  door. 

Sir  Ridley,  released  for  a  while  from 
the  cares 

Of  business,  and  minded  to  breathe 
the  pure  airs 

Of  the  blue  Pyrenees,  and  enjoy  his 
release, 

In  company  there  with  his  sister  and 
niece, 

Found  himself  now  at  Serchon, — dis- 
tributing tracts, 

Sowing  seed  by  the  way,  and  collect- 
ing new  facts 

For  Exeter  Hall ;  he  was  starting 
that  night 

For  Bigorre  :  he  had  heard,  to  his 
cordial  delight, 

That  Lord  Alfred  was  there,  and, 
himself,  setting  out 

For  the  same  destination;  impatient, 
no  doabt ! 

Here  some  commonplace  compli- 
ments as  to  "the  marriage" 

Through  his  speech  trickled  softly, 
like  honey :  his  carriage 

Was  ready.  A  storm  seemed  to 
threaten  the  weather: 

If  his  young  friend  agreed,  why  not 


With  a  footstep  uncertain  and  rest- 
less, a  frown 

Of  perplexity,  during  this  speech, 
up  and  down 

Alfred  Vargrave  was  striding  ;  but, 
after  a  pause 

And  a  slight  hesitation,  the  which 
seemed  to  cause 

Some  surprise  to  Sir  Ridley,  he  an- 
swered,— "My  dear 

Sir  Ridley,  allow  me  a  few  moments 
here — 

Half  an  hour  at  the  most — to  con- 
clude an  affair 

Of  a  nature  so  urgent  as  hardly  to 
spare 

My  presence  (which  brought  me,  in- 
deed, to  this  spot). 

Before  I  £!,ccept  your  kind  offer.* 


74 


LUCILE. 


Said  Sir  Ridley,  and  smiled.    Alfred 

Yargrave,  before 
Sir  Eidley  observed  it,  had  parsed 

through  the  door. 
A  few  moiuents  later,  with  footsteps 

revealing 
Intense    agitation    of    uncontrolled 

feeling,  [low. 

He  was  rapidly  pacing  the  garden  be- 
What  passed  through  his  mind  then 

is  more  than  I  know. 
But  before  one  half-hom"  into  dark- 
ness had  fled. 
In  the  court-yard  he  stood  with  Sir 

Ridley.     His  tread 
Was  firm  and  composed.     ISTot  a  sign 

on  his  face 
Betrayed  there  the  least  agitation. 

''  The  place 
You  so  kindly  have  offered,"  he  said, 

"  I  accept." 
And  he  stretched  out  his  hand.  The 

two  travellers  stepped 
Smiling  into  the  carriage. 

And  thus,  out  of  sight, 
They  drove  down  the  dark  road,  and 

into  the  night. 


Sir  Ridley  was  one  of  those  wise  men 
who,  so  far 

As  their  power  of  saying  it  goes,  say 
with  Zophar, 

"  We,  no  doubt,  are  the  people,  and 
wisdom  shall  die  v/ith  us !  " 

Though  of  wisdom  like  theirs  there 
is  no  snuill  supply  with  us. 

Side  by  side  in  the  carriage  en- 
sconced, the  two  men 

Began  to  converse,  somevvhat  drow- 
sily, when 

Alfred  suddenly  thought, — "  Here's 
a  uiau  of  ripe  age. 

At  my  side,  by  his  fellows  reputed 
as  sage. 

Who  looks  happy,  and  therefore  who 
must  have  been  wise: 

Suppose  I  with  caution  reveal  to  his 
eyes 

Some  few  of  the  reasons  which  make 
me  beiievo 


That  I  neither  am  happy  nor  wise  ? 

'twould  relieve 
And  enlighten,  perchance,  my  own 

darkness  and  doubt." 
For  which  purpose  a  feeler  he  softly 

put  out. 
It  was  snapped  up  at  once. 

''Wliat  is  truth?"   jesting  Pil- 
ate 
Asked,  and  passed  from  the  question 

at  once  with  a  smile  at 
Its  utter  futility.     Had  ho  addresse.i 

it 
To  Ridley  MacNab,  he  at  least  had 

confessed  it 
Admitted  discussion!  and   certainly 

no  man 
Could  more  promptly  have  answered 

the  skeptical  Roman 
Than  Ridley.     Hear  some  street  as- 
tronomer talk! 
Grant  him  two  or  three  hearers,  a 

morsel  of  chalk. 
And  forthwith  on  the  pavement  he'll 

sketch  you  the  scheme 
Of  the  heavens.     Then  hear  him  en 

large  on  his  theme  ! 
Not  afraid  of  La  Place,  nor  of  Ai'ago, 

he  ! 
He'll  prove  you  the  whole  plan  in 

plain  ABC. 
Here's  your  smi, — call  him  a  ;  b's 

the  }noon  ;  it  is  clear 
How  the  rest  of  the  alphabet  brings 

up  tlie  rear 
Of  the  planets.    Now  ask  Arago,  ash 

La  Place, 
(Your  sages,    who  speak  with  tho 

heavens  face  to  fac<>  I) 
Their  science  in  plain  a  b  c  to  ac- 
cord 
To  your    point-blank    inquiiy,   my 

friends  !  not  a  word 
Will  you  get  for  your  pains   from 

their  sad  lips      Alas  ! 
Not  a  drop  from  the  bottle  that's 

quite  full  will  pass. 
'Tis  the  half-empty  vessel  that  freest 

emits 
The  water  that's  in  it.     'Tis  thus 

with  men's  wits  5 


1 


LUCILE. 


75 


Or  at  least  -with  their  knowledge.   A 
man's  capability 

Of  imparting  to  others  a  truth  with 
facility  (exactness 

Is  proportioned  forever -with  painful 

To  the  portable  nature,  the  vulgar 
compactness, 

The  minuteness  in  size,  or  the  light- 
ness in  weight 

Of  the  truth  he  Imparts.     So  small 
coins  circulate 

More  freely  than  large  ones.     A  beg- 
gar asks  alms, 

And  we  fling  him  a  sixpence,  nor 
feel  any  qualms  ; 

But  if  every  street  charity  shook  an 
investment, 

Or  each  beggar  to  clothe  we  must 
strip  off  a  vestment, 

The  length  of  the    process  would 
limit  the  act ; 

And  therefore  the  truth  that's  sum- 
med up  in  a  tract 

Is  most  lightly  dispensed. 

As  for  Alfred,  indeed, 

On  what  spoon.iuls  of  truth  he  was 
suffered  to  feed 

By  Sir  Ridley,  I  Imow  not.     This 
only  I  know. 

That  the  tAvo  men  thus  talking  con- 
tinued to  go 

Onward    somehow,    together,  —  on 
into  the  night, — 

The  midnight, — in  which  they  es- 
cape from  our  sight. 

xxni. 
And  meanwhile  a  world  had  been 

changed  in  its  place, 
And  those  glittering  chains  that  o'er 

blue  balmy  si)ace 
Hang  the  blessing  of  darkness,  had 

drawn  out  of  sight, 
To  solace  imseen  hemispheres,  the 

soft  night  ; 
And  the  dew  of  the  dayspring  be- 
nignly descended, 
And  thelair  morn  to  all  things  new 

sanction  extended. 
In  the  smile  of  tbe  East.     And  the 

lark  scaring  on, 


Lost  in  light,  shook  the  dawn  with 
a  song  from  the  sun. 

And  the  world  laughed. 

It  wanted  but  two  rosy  hours 

From  the  noon,  when  they  passed 
through  the  thick  passion- 
flowers 

Of  the  little  wild  garden  that  dun- 
pled  before 

The  small  house  where  their  car- 
riage now  stopped,  at  Bigorre. 

And  more  fair  than  tlie  flowers, 
more  fresh  than  the  dew, 

With  her  white  morning  robe  flitting 
joyously  through 

The  dark  shrubs  with  which  the  soft 
hillside  was  clothed, 

Alfred  Vargrave  perceived,  w^here  he 
paused,  his  betrothed. 

Matilda  sprang  to  him,  at  once,  with 
a  face 

Of  such  sunny  sweetness,  such  glad- 
ness, such  grace. 

And  radiant  confidence,  childlike 
delight. 

That  his  whole  heart  upbraided  it- 
self at  that  sight. 

And  he  raurmm^ed,  or  sighed,  ''  O, 
how  could  I  have  strayed 

From  this  sweet  child,  or  suffered  in 
aught  to  invade 

Her  young  claiin  on  my  life,  though 
it  were  for  an  hour, 

The  thought  of  another  ?  " 

"  Look  up,  my  sweet  flower  I" 

He  whispered  her  softly,  *•  my  heart 
unto  thee 

Is  returned,  as  returns  to  the  rose 
the  wild  bee  !" 

"And    will    wander    no    more?" 
laughed  Matilda. 
"No  more" 

He  repeated.  And,  low  to  himself, 
"Yes,  'tis  o'er  ! 

My  course,  too,  is  decided,  Lucile  I 
Was  I  blind 

To  have  dreamed  that  these  clever 
Frenchwomen  of  mind 

Could  satisfy  simply  a  plain  English 
heart. 

Or  sympathize  with  it  ?  " 


76 


LUCILE, 


xxrv. 
And  here  the  first  part 
Of  this  drama  is  over.     The  curtain 

falls  furled 
On  the  actors  within  it, — the  Heart 

and  the  World. 
Wooed  and  wooer  haye  played  with 

the  riddle  of  life, 
Have  they  solved  it  ? 
Appear  !    answer,   Husband    and 
Wife  ! 

XXV. 

Yet,  ere  bidding  farewell  to  Lucile 

de  Nevers, 
Bear  her  own  lieart's  farewell  in  this 

letter  of  hers. 

The  CoMTESSE  DE    Nevers  to  a 

Friend  in  India. 
"  Once  more,  O  my  friend,  to  your 

arms  and  yoiu*  heart, 
And  the  places  of  old  .  .  .  never, 

never  to  part ! 
Once  more  to  the  palm  and  the  foun- 
tain !    Once  more 
To  the  land  of  my  birth,  and  the 

deep  skies  of  yore  ! 
From  the  cities  of  Europe,  pursued 

by  the  fret 
Of  their  turmoil  wherever  my  foot- 
steps are  set  ; 
From  the  children  that  cry  for  the 

birth,  and  behold, 
There  is  no  strength  to  bear  them, 

— old  Time  is  so  old  1 
From  the  world's    weary  masters, 

that  come  upon  earth 
Sapped  and  mined  by  the  fever  they 

bear  from  their  birth  ; 
From  the  men  of  small  stature,  mere 

parts  of  a  crowd, 
Bom  too  late,  when  the  strength  of 

the  world  hath  been  bowed  ; 
Back, — back    to  the    Orient,    from 

whose  sunbright  womb 
Sprang  the  giants  which  now  are  no 

more,  in  the  bloom 
And  the  beauty  of  times  that  are 

faded  forever  ! 
To  the  palms  !  to  the  tombs  !  to  the 

^till  Sacred  River  I 


Where  I  too,  the  child  of  a  day  that 
is  done, 

First  leapt  into  life,  and  looked  up 
at  the  sun. 

Back  again,  back  again,  to  the  hill- 
tops of  home 

I  come,  O  my  friend,  my  consoler,  I 
come  ! 

Are  the  three  intense  stars,  that  we 
watched  night  by  night 

Burning  broad  on  the  band  of  Oriou, 
as  bright  ? 

Are  the  large  Indian  moons  as  se- 
rene as  of  old, 

When,  as  children,  we  gathered  the 
moonbeans  for  gold  ? 

Do  you  yet  recollect  me,  my  friend  ? 
Do  you  still 

Remember  the  free  games  we  played 
on  the  hill, 

'Mid  those  huge  stones  upheaped, 
where  we  recklessly  trod 

O'er  the  old  ruined  fane  of  the  old 
ruined  god  ? 

How  he  frowned,  while  around  him 
we  carelessly  playe  d  ! 

That  frown  on  my  life  ever  after 
hath  stayed. 

Like  the  shade  of  a  solemn  experi- 
ence upcast 

From  some  vague  supernatural  grief 
in  the  past. 

For  the  poor  god,  in  pain,  more  than 
anger,  he  frowned^ 

To  perceive  that  our  youth,  though 
so  fleeting,  had  found, 

In  its  transient  and  ignorant  glad- 
ness, the  bliss 

Which  his  science  divine  seemed  di- 
vinely to  miss. 

Alas  !  you  may  haply  remember  me 
yet 

The  free  child,  whose  glad  childhood 
myself  I  forget. 

I  come — a  sad  woman,  defrauded  of 
rest : 

I  bear  to  you  only  a  laboring  breast : 

My  heart  is  a  storm-beaten  ark, 
wildly  hurled 

O'er  the  whirlpools  of  time,  v/ith  the 
wrecks  of  a  world  ; 


LUCILE. 


11 


The  d  ve  from  my  bosom  hath  flown 

far  away  ; 
It  is  flown,  and  returns  not,  though 

many  a  day 
Have  I  watched  from  the  windows 

of  hfe  for  its  coming. 
Friend,    I    sigh    for    repose,  I    am 

weaiy  of  roaming. 
I  know  not  what  Ararat  rises  for  me 
Far    away,  o'er  the  waves  of   the 

wandering  sea  : 
I  know  not  what  rainbow  may  yet, 

from  far  hills,  [tion  of  ills : 
Lift  the  promise  of  hope,  the  cessa- 
But  a  voice,  like  the  voice  of  my 

youth,  in  my  breast 
Wakes  and  whispers  me  on — to  the 

East !  to  the  East  ! 
Shall  I  find  the  child's  heart  that  I 

left  there  ?  or  find 
The  lost  youth  I  recall  with  its  pure 

peace  of  mind  ? 
Alas  I  who  shall  number  the  drops 

of  the  rain  ? 
Or  give  to  the   dead    leaves    their 

greenness  again  ? 
Who  shall  seal  up  the  caverns  the 

earthquake  hath  rent  ? 
Who  shall  bring  forth  the  winds  that 

within  them  are  pent  ? 
To  a  voice  who  shall  render  an  im- 
age ?  or  who 
From  the  heats  of  the  noontide  shall 

gather  the  dew  ? 
I  have  burned  out  within   me  the 

fuel  of  life 
Wherefore  lingers  the  flame  ?    Rest 

is  sweet  after  strife. 
I  would  sleep  for  a  while.     I  am 

weary. 

**  My  friend, 
I  had  meant  in  these  lines  to  re- 
gather,  and  send 
To  our  old  home,  my  life's  scattered 

links.     But  'tis  vain  I 
Each  attempt  seems  to  shatter  the 

chaplet  again  ; 
Only  fit  now  for  fingers  like  mine  to 

run  o'er, 
Who   return,    a   recluse,    to   those 

cloisters  of  yore 


Whence  too  far  I  have  wandered. 

"  How  many  long  years 
Does  it  seem  to  me  now  since  the 

quick,  scorching  tears, 
"WTiile  I  wrote  to  you,  splashed  out  a 

girl's  premature 
Moans  of  pain  at  what  women  in  si- 
lence endure  ! 
To  your  eyes,  friend  of  mine,  and  to 

your  eyes  alone. 
That  now  long-faded  page  of  my  life 

hath  been  shown 
Which  recorded   my  heart's   birth, 

and  death,  as  you  know, 
Many  years  since, — how  many  ! 

"A  few  months  ago 
I  seemed  reading  it  backward,  that 

page  !    Why  explain 
Whence  or  how  ?    The  old  dream  of 

my  life  rose  again. 
The  old  superstition  !  the  idol  of  old  I 
It  is  over.     The  leaf  trodden  do^Ti 

in  the  mould 
Is  not  to  the  forest  more  lost  than  to 

me 
That  emotion.    I  bmy  it  here  by  the 

sea 
Wliich  will  bear  me  anon  far  away 

from  the  shore 
Of  a  land  which  my  footsteps  shall 

visit  no  more. 
And  a  heart's  requiescat  I  write  on 

that  grave. 
Hark!  the  sigh  of  the  wind,  and  the 

sound  of  the  wave. 
Seem  like  voices  of  spirits  that  whis- 
per me  home  I 
I  come,  O  you  whispering  voices,  I 

come  ! 
My  friend,  ask  me  nothing. 

"  Receive  me  alone 
As  a  Santon  receives  to  his  dwelling 

of  stone 
In  silence  some  pilgrim  the  midnight 

may  bring  : 
It  may  be  an  angel  that,  weary  of 

wing, 
Hath  paused  in  his  flight  from  some 

city  of  doom. 
Or  only  a  wayfarer  strayed  ia  the 

gloom, 


78 


LUCILE. 


This  only  I  know  :  that  in  Europe  at 

least 
Lives  the  craft  or  the  power  that 

must  master  our  East. 
Wherefore    strive   v/here    the   gods 

must  themselves  yield  at  last  ? 
Both  they  and  their  altars  pass  by 

with  the  Past, 
The  gods   of   the  household  Time 

thrusts  from  the  shelf  ; 
And  I  seem  as  imreal  and  weird  to 

myself 
As  those  idols  of  old. 


"  Other  times,  other  men, 
Other  men,  other  passions  ! 

"So  be  it  I  yet  again 
I  turn  to  my  birthplace,  the  birth- 
place of  morn, 
And  the  light  of  those  lands  where 

the  great  sim  is  born  ! 
Spread  your  arms,  O,  my  friend  !  on 

your  breast  let  me  feel 
The  repose  which  hath  fled  from  my 
own. 

'•  Yoor  LucLLE." 


PART     II. 


CANTO  I. 


Hail,  Muse  !  But  each  Muse  by  this 

time  has,  I  know, 
Been  used  up,  and  Apollo  has  bent 

his  own  bow 
All  too  long ;  so  I  leave  unassaulted 

the  portal 
Of  Olympus,  and  only  invoke  here  a 

mortal. 

Hail,    Murray  ! — not    Lindley, — but 

Murray  and  Son. 
Hail,  omniscient,   beneficent,  great 

Two-in-One  ! 
In  Albemarle  Street  may  thy  temple 

long  stand  ! 
Long  enlightened  and  led  by  thine 

erudite  hand. 
May  eacli  novice  in  science  nomadic 

imravel 
Statistical    mazes    of     modernized 

travel  ! 
May  each  inn-keeping  knave  long 

thy  judgments  revere, 
And  the  postboys  of  Europe  regard 

thee  with  fear  ; 
While  they  feel,  in  the  silence  of 

baffled  extoition. 
That  knowledge  is  power  !    Long, 

long,  like  that  portion 


Of  the  national  soil  which  the  Greek 

exile  took 
In  his  baggage  wherever  he  went, 

may  thy  book 
Cheer  each  poor  British  pilgrim,  who 

trusts  to  thy  wit 
Not  to  pay  tlirough  his  nose  just  for 

following  it  ! 
Mayst  thou  long,  O  instructor  !  pre- 
side o'er  his  way. 
And  teach  him  alike  what  to  praise 

and  to  pay  ! 
Thee,  pursuing  this  pathway  of  song, 

once  again 
I  invoke,  lest,  unskilled,  I  should 

wander  in  vain. 
To  my  call  be  propitious,  nor,  churl- 
ish, refuse 
Thy  great  accents  to  lend  to  the  lips 

of  my  Muse  ; 
For  I  sing  of  the  Naiads  who  dwell 

'mid  the  stems 
Of   the    green   linden-trees   by  the 

waters  of  Eins. 
Yes!  thy  spirit  descends  upon  muie, 

O,  John  Mm-ray  ! 
And  I  start — with  thy  book — for  the 

Baths  in  a  hm'ry. 
II. 
"At    Coblentz    a   bridge    of    boats 

crosses  the  Rhine  ; 
And  from  thence  the  road,  winding 

by  Ehrenbreitsteia, 


nrcTLH. 


Passes  over  the  frontier  of  Nassau. 
{''^.  II. 

No  custom-house  here  since  the  ZoU- 
verein."     See 

Murray,  paragraph  30. ) 

"The  route,  at  each  turn, 

Here  the  lover  of  natui-e  allows  to 
discern, 

In  varj'ing  prospect,  a  rich  wooded 
dale  : 

The  vine  and  acacia-tree  mostly  pre- 
vail 

In  the  foliage  observable  here  ;  and, 
moreover, 

The  soil  is  carbonic.     The  road,  un- 
der cover 

Of  the  grape-clad  and  mountainous 
upland  that  hems 

Hound  this  beautiful  spot,  brings  the 
traveller  to— "EMS. 

A  schnellpost  from  Frankfort  arrives 
every  day. 

At  the  Kurhaus  (the  old  Ducal  man- 
sion) you  pay 

Eight  florins  for  lodgings.  A  Restau- 
rateur 

Is  attached  to  the  place  ;  but  most 
travellers  prefer 

(Including,  indeed,  many  persons  of 
note)  [d'hote. 

To  dine  at  the   usual-priced  table 

Through  tlie  town  runs  the  Lahn,  the 
steep  green  banks  of  v/hich 

Two    rows    of    white    picturesque 
houses  enrich  ; 

And  between  the  high  road  and  the 
river  is  laid 

Out  a  sort  of  a  garden,  called  '  The 
Promenade.' 

Female  visitors  here,  who  may  make 
up  their  mind 

To  ascend  to  the  top  of  these  moun- 
tains, will  find 

On  the  banks  of  the  stream,  saddled 
ail  the  day  long, 

Troops  of  donkeys  —  sure-footed — 
proverbially  strong  ; " 

And  the  traveller  at  Ems  may  re- 
mark, as  he  passes, 

Here,  as  elsewhere,  the  women  run 
after  the  asses. 


'Mid  the    world's    weary    denizens 

bound  for  these  springs 
In  the  month  when  the  merle  on  the 

maple-bough  sings, 
Pursued  to  the  place  from  dissimilar 

paths  [the  baths 

By  a  similar  sickness,  there  came  to 
Foiu*  siilierers,  —  each  stricken  deep 

through  the  heart, 
Or  the  head,  by  the   self-same  in- 
visible dart 
Of  the  arrow  that  flieth  miheard  in 

the  noon. 
From  the  sickness  that  walketh  un- 
seen in  the  moon, 
Through  this  great  lazaretto  of  life, 

wherein  each 
Infects  with  his  own  sores  the  next 

within  reach. 
First  of  these  were  a  young  English 

husband  and  wife, 
Grown  weary  ere  half  through  the 

journey  of  life. 
O  Nature,    say    where,    thou    gray 

mother  of  eartli, 
Is  the  strength  of  thy  youth  ?  that 

thy  womb  brings  to  birth 
Only  old  men  to-day  !  On  the  winds, 

as  of  old,  [bold  ; 

Thy  voice  in  its  accent  is  joyous  and 
Thy  forests  are  green  as  of  yore  ;  and 

thine  oceans 
Yet    move    in    the    might  of  their 

ancient  emotions  : 
But  man — thy  last  birth  and    thy 

best — is  no  more 
Life's  free  lord,  that  looked  up  to 

the  starlight  of  yore, 
With  tlie  faith  on  the  brov/,  and  the 

fire  in  the  eyes. 
The  firm  foot  on  the  earth,  the  high 

heart  in  the  skies  ; 
But  a  gray-headed  infant,  defrauded 

of  youth. 
Born  too  late  or  too  early. 

The  lady,  in  truth, 
Was  young,  fair,   and  gentle  ;  and 

never  was  given 
To  more  heavenly  eyes,  the    pure 

azure  of  heaven. 


So 


LUCILM. 


Never  yet  did  the  sun  touch  to  rip- 
ples of  gold 

Tresses  brighter  than  those  which 
her  soft  hand  unrolled 

From  her  noble  and  innocent  brow, 
when  she  rose, 

An  Aurora,  at  dawn,  from  her  balmy- 
repose. 

And  into  the  mirror  the  bloom  and 
the  blush 

Of  her  beauty  broke,  glowing  ;  like 
light  in  a  gush 

From  the  sunrise  in  summer. 

Love,  roaming,  shall  meet 

But  rarely  a  nature  more  sound  or 
more  sweet — 

Eyes    brighter — brows  whiter — a 
figure  more  fair — 

Or  lovelier  lengths  of  more  radiant 
hair — 

Than    thine.    Lady    Alfred  !    And 
here  I  aver 

(May  those  that  have  seen  thee  de- 
clare if  I  err) 

That  not  all  the  oysters  in  Britain 
contain 

A  pearl  pure  as  thou  art. 

Let  some  one  explain, — 

Who  may  know  more  than  I  of  the 
intimate  life 

Of  the  pearl  with  the  oyster, — why 
yet  in  his  wife, 

In  despite  of  her  beauty — and  most 
when  he  felt 

His 'soul  to  the  sense  of  her  loveli- 
ness melt — 

Lord  Alfred  missed  something   he 
sought  for  :  indeed, 

The  more    that  he    missed  it    the 
greater  the  need  ; 

Till  it  seemed  to  himself  he  could 
willingly  spare 

All  the  charms  that  he  found  for  the 
one  charm  not  there. 

IV. 

For  the  blessings  Life  lends 

strictly  demands 
The  worth  of  their  full  usufruct  at 

our  hands. 
And  the  value  of  all  things  exists, 

not  indeed 


In  themselves,   but  man's    use    of 
them,  feeding  man's  need. 

Alfred  Vargrave,   in  wedding  with 
beauty  and  youth. 

Had  embraced  both  Ambition  and 
Wealth.     Yet  in  truth 

Unfulfilled  the  ambition,  and  sterile 
the  wealth 

(Li  a  life  paralyzed  by  a  moral  ill- 
health). 

Had  remained,  while  the  beauty  and 
youth,  unredeemed 

From  a  vague  disappointment  at  all 
things,  but  seemed 

Day  by  day  to  reproach  him  in  silence 
for  all 

That  lost  youth  in  himself  they  had 
failed  to  recall. 

No  career  had  he  followed,  no  object 
obtained 

In  the  world  by  those  worldly  ad- 
vantages gained 

From   nuptials   beyond  which  once 
seemed  to  appear, 

Lit  by  love,  the  broad  path  of  a  bril- 
liant career. 

All    that    glittered     and    gleamed 
through  the  moonlight  of  youth 

With  a  glory  so  fair,  now  that  man- 
hood in  truth 

Grasped  and  gathered  it,  seemed  like 
that  false  fairy  gold 

Which  leaves  in  the  hand  only  moss, 
leaves,  and  mould ! 
V. 

Fairy  gold !  moss  and  leaves !  and  the 
young  Fairy  Bride  ? 

Lived  there  yet  fairy-lands  in  the  face 
at  his  side  ? 

Say,  O  friend,  if  at  evening  thou  ever 
hast  watched 

Some  pale  and  impalpable  vapor,  de- 
tached 

From  the  dim  and  disconsolate  earth, 
rise  and  fall 

O'er  the  light  of  a  sweet  serene  star, 
until  all 

The    chilled     splendor    reluctantly 
waned  in  the  deep 

Of  its  own  native  heaven  ?    Even  so 
seemed  to  creep 


ivain. 


81 


O'er  that  fair  and  ethereal  face,  day 

by  day, 
While  the  radiant  vermeil,  subsiding 

away, 
Hid  its  light  in  the  heart,  the  faint 

gradual  veil 
Of  a  sadness  unconscious. 

The  lady  grew  pale 
As  silent  her  lord  grew :  and  both,  as 

they  eyed 
Each  the  other  askance,  turned,  and 

secretly  sighed. 
Ah,  wise  friend,  what  avails  all  ex- 
perience can  give  ? 
True,  we  know  what  life  is — but, 

alas !  do  we  live  ? 
The  grammar  of  life  we  have  gotten 

by  heart, 
But  life's  self  we  have  made  a  dead 

language, — an  art, 
Not  a  voice.     Could  we  speak  it,  but 

once,  as  'twas  spoken 
When  the  silence  of  passion  the  first 

time  w  as  broken ! 
Cuvier  knew  the  world  better  than 

Adam,  no  doubt: 
But  the  last  man,  at  best,  was  but 

learned  about 
What  the  first,  without  learning,  en- 

joyed.    What  art  thou 
To  the  man  of  to-day,  O  Leviathan, 

now  ? 
A  science.     What  wert  thou  to  him 

that  from  ocean 
First  beheld  thee  appear  ?    A  sur- 
prise,— an  emotion! 
When  life  leaps  in  the  veins,  when  it 

beats  in  the  heart. 
When  it  thrills  as  it  fills  every  ani- 
mate part. 
Where  lurks  it  ?  how  works  it  ?  .  .  . 

w^e  scarcely  detect  it. 
But  life  goes  :  the  heart  dies  :  haste, 

O  leech,  and  dissect  it ! 
This  accurse'd  assthetical,  ethical  age 
Hath  so  fingered  life's  hornbook,  so 

blurred  every  page, 
That  the  old  glad  romance,  the  gay 

chivalrous  story. 
With  its  fables  of  faery,  its  legends 

of  glory, 


Is  turned  to  a  tedious  instruction,  not 

new 
To  the  children  that  read  it  insipidly 

through. 
We  know  too  much  of  Love  ere  we 

love.     We  can  trace 
Nothing  new,  unexpected,  or  strange 

in  his  face 
When  we  see  it  at  last.     'Tis  the 

same  little  Cupid, 
With  the  same  dimpled  cheek,  and 

the  smile  almost  stupid, 
We  have  seen  in  oui'  pictures,  and 

stuck  on  our  shelves. 
And  copied  a  hundred  times  over, 

ourselves. 
And  wherever  we  turn,  and  what- 
ever w^e  do. 
Still,  that  horrible  sense  of  the  d^ja 

connu  ! 

VI. 

Perchance  'twas  the  fault  of  the  life 
that  they  led ; 

Perchance  'twas  the  fault  of  the 
novels  they  read ; 

Perchance  'twas  a  fault  in  them- 
selves ;  I  am  boimd  not 

To  say:  this  I  know — that  these  two 
creatures  found  not 

In  each  other  some  sign  they  expect- 
ed to  find 

Of  a  something  unnamed  in  the 
heart  or  the  mind ; 

And,  missing  it,  each  felt  a  right  to 
complain 

Of  a  sadness  which  each  found  no 
word  to  explain. 

Whatever  it  was,  the  world  noticed 
not  it 

In  the  light-hearted  beauty,  the  light- 
hearted  wit. 

Still,  as  once  with  the  actors  in 
Greece,  'tis  the  case, 

Each  must  speak  to  the  crown  with  a 
mask  on  his  face. 

Praise  followed  Matilda  wherever 
she  went. 

She  was  flattered.  Can  flattery  pur- 
chase content  ? 


tnciLE. 


Yes.    Wliile  to  its  voice,  for  a  mo- 
ment, she  listened, 

The  young  cheelv  still  bloomed,  and 
the  soft  eyes  still  glistened; 

And  her  lord,  when,  like  one  of  those 
light  vivid  things 

That  glide  down  the  gauzes  of  sum- 
mer with  wings 

Of  rapturous  radiance,  unconscious 
she  moved 

Through  that  buzz  of  inferior  crea- 
tures, which  proved 

Her  beauty,  their  envy,  one  moment 
forgot 

*Mid  the  many  channs  there,  the  one 
charm  that  w^as  not: 

And   when  o'er  her  beauty  enrapt- 
ured he  bowed, 

(As  they  turned  to  each  other,  each 
flushed  from  the  croAvd,) 

And  murmured  those  praises  which 
yet  seemed  more  dear 

Than  the  praises  of  others  had  grown 
to  her  ear, 

She,  too,  ceased  awhile  her  own  fate 
to  regret: 

"Yes! ...  he  loves  me,"  she  sighed; 
''  this  is  love,  then,— and  yet — .' " 

VII. 

Ah,  that  yetl  fatal  word!  'tis  the 

moral  of  all 
Thought  and  felt,  seen  or  done,  in 

this  v/orld  since  the  Fall! 
It  stands  at  the  end  of  each  sentence 

we  learn; 
It  flits  in  the  vista  of  all  we  discern; 
It  leads  us,  forever  a)id  ever,  away 
To  find  in  to-morrow  what  flies  with 

to-day. 
'Twas  this  same  little  fatal  and  mys- 
tical word  [and  lord 
That  now,  like  a  mirage,  led  my  lady 
To  the  waters  of  Ems  from  the  waters 

of  Marah ; 
Drooping     pilgrims     in     Fashion's 

blank,  arid  Sahara  1 
vm. 
At  the  same  time,  pursued  by  a  spell 

much  the  same, 
To  these  waters  tw^o  other  w^oru  pil- 
grims there  came: 


One  a  man,  one  a  woman:  just  now, 

at  the  latter. 
As  the  Reader  I  mean  by  and  by  to 

look  at  her 
And  judge  for  himself,  I  will  not 

even  glance. 


IX. 

Of  the  self-crowned  young  kings  of 

the  Fashion  in  France 
Whose  resplendent  regaha  so  dazzled 

the  sight. 
Whose  horse  w^as  so  perfect,  whose 

boots  were  so  bright, 
Wlio  so  hailed  in  the  salon,  so  marked 

in  the  Bois, 
Who  so  welcomed  by  all,  as  Eugene 

de  Luvois  ? 
Of  all  the  smooth-browed  premature 

debauchees 
In  that  town  of  all  towns,  where  De- 
bauchery sees 
On  the  forehead  of  youth  her  mark 

everywhere  graven, — 
In  Paris  I  mean,— where  the  streets 

are  all  paven 
By  those  two  fiends  whom  Milton  saw 

bridging  the  way 
From    Hell    to    this    planet,— who, 

haughty  and  gay. 
The  free  rebel  of  life,  bound  or  led  by 

no  law, 
Walked  that  causeway  as  bold  as 

Eugene  de  Luvois  ? 
Yes  I  he  marched  through  the  great 

masquerade,  loud  of  tongue. 
Bold  of  brow  :    but  the  motley  he 

masked  in,  it  hung 
So  loose,  trailed   so  wide,  and  ap- 
peared to  impede 
So  strangely  at  times  the  vexed  effort 

at  speed. 
That  a  keen  eye  might  guess  it  was 

made — not  for  him, 
But  some  brawler  more  stalwart  of 

stature  and  limb. 
That  it  irked  hhn,  in  truth,  you  at 

times  could  divine. 
For  when  low  was  the  music,  and 
split  was  the  wine, 


lUCILE. 


S3 


He  would  clutch  at  the  garment,  as 

though  it  oppressed 
And  stifled  some  impulse  that  choked 

in  his  breast. 

X. 

What !  he,  . .  .  the  light  sport  of  his 
frivolous  ease  ! 

"Was  he,  too,  a  prey  to  a  mortal  dis- 
ease ? 

My  friend,  hear  a  parable  :  ponder 
it  well  : 

For  a  moral  there  is  in  the  talc  that 
I  tell. 

One  evening  I  sat  in  the  Palais 
Royal, 

And  there,  while  I  laughed  at  Gras- 
sot  and  Amal, 

My  eye  fell  on  the  face  of  a  man  at 
my  side  ; 

Every  time  that  he  laughed  I  ob- 
served that  he  sighed, 

As  though  vexed  to  be  pleased.  I 
remarked  that  he  sat 

111  at  ease  on  his  seat,  and  kept 
twirling  his  hat 

In  his  hand,  v/ith  a  look  of  unquiet 
abstraction. 

I  inquired  the  cause  of  his  dissatis- 
faction. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "if  what  vexes  me 
here  you  would  know. 

Learn  that,  passing  this  way  some 
few  half-hours  ago, 

I  walked  into  the  Fran^ais,  to  look 
at  Rachel. 

(Sir  that  woman  in  Phedre  is  a 
miracle  ! ) — Well, 

I  asked  for  a  box  :  they  were  oc- 
cupied all  : 

For  a  seat  in  the  balcony  :  all  taken ! 
a  stall : 

Taken  too  :  the  whole  house  was  as 
full  as  could  be, — 

Not  a  hole  for  a  rat !  I  had  just  time 
to  see  [friend 

The  lady  I  love   tite-ii-tete  with  a 

In  a  box  out  of  reach  at  the  opposite 
end  : 

TLen  the  crowd  pushed  me  out. 
What  was  left  me  to  do  ? 


I   tried  for  the  tragedy  .   .   .   que 

voulez-vous  f 
Every  place  for  the  tragedy  booked  I 

.  .  .  mon  avii, 
The  farce  was  close  by  :  ...  at  the 

farce  me  void  ! 
The  piece  is  a  new  one  :  and  Gras- 

sot  plays  well  : 
There  is  drollery,  too,  in  that  fellow 

Eavel  : 
And  Hyacinth's  nose  is  superb  ! .  .  . 

Yet  I  meant 
My  evening  elsewhere,  and  not  thus, 

to  have  spent. 
Fate  orders  these  things  by  her  will, 

not  by  ours  I 
Sir,  mankind  is  the  sport  of  invisible 

powers," 

I  once  met  the  Due  de  Luvois  for  a 

moment ; 
And  I  marked,  when  his  featm-es  I 

fixed  in  my  comment, 
O'er  those  features  the  same  vague 

disquietude  stray 
I  had  seen  on  the  face  of  my  friend 

at  the  play  ; 
And  I  thought  that  he  too,   very 

probably,  spent 
His  evenings  not  wholly  as  first  he 

had  meant. 

XI. 

O  source  of  the  holiest  joys  we  in- 
herit, 
O    Sorrow,   thou    solemn,   invisible 

spirit  ! 
Ill  fares  it  with  man  when,  through 

life's  desert  sand, 
Grown  impatient  too  soon  for  the 

long-promised  land 
He  turns  from  the  worship  of  thee, 

as  thou  art. 
An  expressless  and  imageless  truth 

in  the  heart, 
And  takes  of  the  jewels  of  Egypt, 

the  pelf 
And  the  gold  of  the  godless,  to  make 

to  himself 
A  gaudy,  idolatrous  image  of  thee, 
And  then  bows  to  the  sound  of  the 

cymbal  the  knee. 


84 


LVCILE. 


The  sorrows  -wc  make  to  ourseives 
are  false  gods  : 

like  the  prophets  of  Baal,  onr 
bosoms  with  rods 

V\'e  may  smite,  we  may  gash  at  our 
hearts  till  they  bleed, 

But  these  idol  s  are  blind,  deaf,  and 
dumb  to  our  need. 

The  laud  is  athirst,  and  cries  out ! 
.  .  .  'tis  in  vain  ; 

The  great  blessing  of  Heaven  de- 
scends not  in  rain. 


It  was  night  ;  and  the  lamps  were 
begiiniing  to  gleam 

Through  the  long  liliden-trees,  fold- 
ed each  in  his  dream, 

From  that  building  which  looks  like 
a  temple  .  .  .  and  is 

The  Temple  of— Health  ?    Nay,  tut 
enter  !    I  wish 

That    never    the    rosy-hued    deity 
knew 

One    votary    out    of    that    sallow- 
cheeked  crew 

Of  Courlanders,  Wailacs,  Greeks,  af- 
fable Russians, 

Explosive     Parisians,    potato-faced 
Prussians  ; 

Jews — Hamburghers  chiefly  ; — pure 
patriots, — Suabians  ;— 

"  Cappadocians  and  Elamites,  Cretes 
and  Arabians, 

And  the  dwellers  in  Pontus  "... 
My  muse  will  not  weary 

More  lines  with  the  list  of  them  .  .  . 
cur  fremxicre  ? 

What  is  it  they  mm-mur,  and  mutter, 
and  hum  ? 

Into  what  Pandemonium  is  Pente- 
cost come  ? 

O,  what  is  the  name  of  the  god  at 
whose  fane 

Every  nation  is  mixed  in  so  motley 
a  train  ? 

What  weird  Kabala  lies  on   those 
tables  outspread  ? 

To  what  oracle  turns  with  attention 
each  head  ? 


What  holds  these  pale  worshippers  ; 

each  so  devout, 

And  what    are    those    hierophanta  j 

busied  about  ?  i 


Here  passes,  repasses,  and  flits  to 

and  fro. 
And  rolls  without  ceasing  the  great 

Yes  and  No  : 
Round  this  altar  alternate  the  weird 

Passions  dance, 
And  the  God  worshipx^ed  here  is  the 

old  God  of  Chance. 
Through  the  wide-open  doors  of  the 

distant  saloon 
Flute,     hautboy,     and     fiddle     are 

squeaking  in  tune  ; 
And  an  indistinct  music  forever  is 

rolled, 
That  mixes    and  chimes  with    the 

chink  of  the  gold. 
From  a  vision,  that  flits  in  a  lumin- 
ous haze. 
Of  figures  forever  eluding  the  gaze  ; 
It  fleets  through    the    doorway,   ii 

gleams  on  the  glass, 
And  the  weird   words  pursue   it — 

Rouge,  Impair,  et  Passe  I 
Like  a  sound  borne  in  sleep  through 

such  dreams  as  encumber 
With    haggard    emotions    the  wild 

Micked  slumber 
Of    some    witch    when    she    seek?, 

through  a  night-mare,  to  graL' 

at 
The  hot  hoof  of  the  fiend,  on  her 

way  to  the  Sabbat. 


The  Due  de  Luvois  and  Lord  Alfred 
had  met 

Some  fev/  evenings  ago  (for  the  sea- 
son as  yet 

Was  but  young)  in  this  self-same 
Pavilion  of  Chance. 

The  idler  from  England,  the  idler 
from  France 

Shook  hands,  each,  of  course,  with 
much  cordial  pleasure  : 

An  acquaintance  at  Ems  is  to  most 
men  a  treasure, 


LUCJLE. 


85 


And  they  both  were  too  well-bred  in 
aught  to  betray 

One  discourteous  remembrance    of 
things  passed  away. 

'Twas  a  sight  that  was  pleasant,  in- 
deed, to  be  seen, 

These  friends  exchange  greetings  ; — 
the  men  who  had  been 

Foes  so  nearly  in  days  that  were 
past. 

This,  no  doubt, 

Is  why,  on  the  night  I  am  speaking 
about, 

My  Lord  Alfred  sat  down  by  him- 
self at  roulette, 

Without  one  suspicion  his  bosom  to 
fret. 

Although  he  had  left,  with  his  pleas- 
ant French  friend, 

Matilda,  half  vexed,  at  the  room's 
farthest  end, 

XV. 

Lord  Alfred  his  combat  with  For-, 
tune  began 

With  a  few  modest  thalers — away 
they  all  ran — 

The  reserve  followed  fast  in  the  rear. 
As  his  purse 

Grew  lighter  his  spirits  grew  sensi- 
bly w^orse. 

One  needs  not  a  Bacon  to   find  a 
cause  for  it  : 

'Tis  an  old  law  in  physics — Natura 
abhorret 

Vacuum — and  my  lord,  as  he  watch- 
ed his  last  crown 

Tumble  into  the  bank,  turned  away 
with  a  frown 

Which  the  brows  of  iN'apoleon  hhn- 
self  might  have  decked 

On  that  day  of  all  days  when  an  em- 
pire was  w^recked 

On  thy  plain,  Waterloo,  and  he  wit- 
nessed the  last 

Of  his  favorite  Guard  cut  to  pieces, 
aghast  ! 

Just   then    Alfred    felt,    he    could 
scarcely  tell  why, 

Within    him    the    sudden    strange 
sense  that  some  eye 


Had    long  been  intently  regarding 

him  there, — 
That  some  gaze  was  upon   him  too 

searching  to  bear. 
He  rose  and  looked  up.  Was  it  fact  ? 

Was  it  fable  ? 
Was    it  dream?    Was    it  waking? 

Across  the  green  table, 
That  face,  with  its  featm-es  so  far 

tally  known,  — 
Those  eyes,   whose  deep  gaze   an- 
swered strangely  his  own, — 
What  w^as  it  ?    Some  ghost  from  its 

grave  come  again  ? 
Some  cheat  of  a  feverish,  fanciful 

brain  ? 
Or  was  it  herself — with  those  deep 

eyes  of  hers. 
And  that  face  unforgotten  ? — Lucile 

de  Nevers  ! 

Ah,  well  that  pale  woman  a  phan- 
tom might  seem, 

WTio  appeared  to  herself  but  the 
dream  of  a  dream  ! 

'Neath  those  features  so  calm,  that 
fair  forehead  so  hushed, 

That  pale  cheek  forever  by  passion 
unflushed. 

There  yawned  an  insatiate  void,  and 
there  heaved 

A  tumult  of  restless  regrets  unre- 
lieved. 

The  brief  noon  of  beauty  was  pass- 
ing away, 

And  the  chill  of  the  twilight  fell,  si- 
lent and  gray. 

O'er  that  deep,  self-perceived  isola- 
tion of  soul. 

And  now,  as  all  round  her  the  dim 
evening  stole. 

With  its  weird  desolations,  she  in- 
wardly grieved 

For  the  want  of  that  tender  assur- 
ance received 

From  the  warmth  of  a  whisper,  the 
glance  of  an  eye. 

Which  should  say,  or  should  look, 
**  Fear  thou  naught, — I  am 
by  I" 


86 


LUCJLE. 


And  thus,  through  that  lonely  and 

self-fixed  existence, 
Crept  a  vague  sense  of  silence,  and 

horror,  and  distance  : 
A  strange  sort  of  faint-footed  fear, 

— like  a  mouse 
That  comes  out,  when  'tis  dark,  in 

some  old  ducal  house 
Long  deserted,  where  no  one  the 

creature  can  scare, 
And  the  forms  on  the  arras  are  all 

that  move  there. 

In    Kome, — in    the    Forum, — there 

opened  one  night 
A  gulf.    All  the  augurs  turned  pale 

at  the  sight. 
In  this  omen  the  anger  of  Heaven 

they  read. 
Men  consulted  the  gods  :  then  the 

oracle  said  : —  [till  at  last 

*'  Ever  open  this  gulf  shall  endm-e, 
That  which  Kome  hath  most  pre- 
cious within  it  be  cast." 
The  Romans  threw  in  it  their  corn 

and  their  stuff, 
But  the  gulf  yawned  as  wide.  Rome 

seemed  likely  enough 
To  be  ruined  ere  this  rent  in  her 

heart  she  could  choke. 
Then  Cm-tius,  revering  the  oracle, 

spoke  :  [tion  is  come  : 

*  O  Quirites  !  to  this  Heaven's  ques- 
What  to  Rome  is  most  precious  ? 

The  manhood  of  Rome." 
He  plunged,  and  the  gulf  closed. 

The  tale  is  not  new  : 
But  the  moral  applies  many  ways, 

and  is  true. 
How,  for  hearts  rent  in  twain,  shall 

the  curse  be  destroyed  ? 
'Tis  a  warm  human  life  that  must 

fill  up  the  void. 
Thorough  many  a  heart  runs  the  rent 

in  the  fable  ;  [able  ? 

But  who  to  discover  a  Cm-tius  is 

XVII. 

JBack  she  came  from  her  long  hiding- 
place,  at  the  somce 

Of  tihe  simrise  ;  where,  fair  in  their 
fabulous  course, 


Run  the  rivers  of  Eden  :    an  exikij 

again,  ) 

To  the  cities  of  Europe, — the  scenes,! 

and  the  men,  ! 

And  the  life,  and  the  ways,  she  had! 

left  :  still  oppressed  i 

With  the  same  hungry  heart,  audi 

unpeaceable  breast.  | 

The  same,  to  the  same  things  !    The '. 

world,  she  had  quitted  I 

With  a  sigh,  with  a  sigh  she  re-en- 
tered..   Soon  flitted  ! 
Through  the  salons  and  clubs,  to  the  i 

great  satisfaction  [tion. 

Of  Paris,  the  news  of  a  novel  attrac- 1 
The    enchanting    Lucile,    the    gay , 

Countess,  once  more  I 

To  her  old  friend,  the  World,  had  re- 
opened her  door  ;  ) 
The  World  came,  and  shook  hands, ,; 

and  was  pleased  and  amused    \. 
With  what  the  World  then  went  away  | 

and  abused.  i 

From  the  woman's  fair  fame  it  in 

naught  could  detract  : 
'Twas  the  woman's  free  genius  iti 

vexed  and  attacked  ; 

With  a  sneer  at  her  freedom  of  ac-- 

tion  and  speech. 
But  its  light  careless  cavils,  in  truth, 

could  not  reach 
The  lone  heart  they  aimed  at.     Hen 

tears  fell  beyond 
The  world's  limit,  to  feel  that  the 

world  could  respond 
To  that  heart's  deepest,  innermost | 

yearning,  in  naught.  [ 

'Twas  no  longer  this  earth's  idle  in- 
mates she  sought  : 
The  wit  of  the  woman  sufficed  to 

engage 
In  the  woman's  gay  court  the  first 

men  of  the  age. 
Some  had  genius  ;    and  all,  wealth 

of  mind  to  confer 
On  the  world  :  but  that  wealth  was 

not  lavished  for  her. 
For  the  genius  of  man,  though  soi 

human  indeed,  j 

When  called  out  to  man's  help  byy 

some  great  himian  need,  ' 


LUCILE. 


87 


The  right  to  a  man's  chance  ac- 
quaintance refuses 

To  use  what  it  hoards  for  mankind's 
nobler  uses. 

Genius  touches  the  world  at  but  one  | 
point  alone  1 

Of  that  spacious  circimiference,  nev- 1 
er  quite  known  | 

To  the  world  :  all  the  infinite  num- 
ber of  lines 

That  radiate  thither  a  mere  point 
combines, 

But  one  only, — some  central  affec- 
tion apart 

From  the  reach  of  the  world,   in  j 
which  Genius  is  Heart,  j 

And  love,  life's  fine  centre,  includes  ; 
heart  and  mind. 

And  therefore  it  was  that  Lucile 
sighed  to  find  [her  ken. 

Men  of  genius  appear,  one  and  all  in 

When  they  stooped  themselves  to  it, 
as  mere  clever  men  ; 

Artists,  statesmen,  and  they  in  whose 
works  are  imfurled 

Worlds  new-fashioned  for  man,  as 
mere  men  of  the  world. 

And  so,  as  alone  now  she  stood,  in 
the  sight 

Of  the  sunset  of  youth,  with  her  face 
from  the  light, 

And  watched  her  own  shadow  grow 
long  at  her  feet, 

As  though  stretched  out,  the  shade 
of  some  other  to  meet, 

The  woman  felt  homeless  and  child- 
less :  in  scorn 

She  seemed  mocked  by  the  voices  of 
children  unborn  ; 

And  when  from  these  sombre  reflec- 
tions away 

She  turned,  with  a  sigh,  to  that  gay 
world,  more  gay 

For  her  presence  within  it,  she  knew 
herself  friendless  ; 

That  her  path  led  from  peace,  and 
that  path  appeared  endless  ! 

That  even  her  beauty  had  been  but 

a  snare. 
And  her  wit  sharpened  only  the  edge 
of  despair. 


XVI  n. 

With    a  face  all    transfigured   and 

flushed  by  surprise, 
Alfred  turned  to  Lucile.    With  those 

deep  searching  eyes 
She  looked  into  his    own.    Not  a 

word  that  she  said, 
Not  a  look,  not  a  blush,  one  emotion 

betrayed. 
She  seemed  to  smile  through  him,  at 

something  beyond  : 
^Yhen  she  answered  his  questions, 

she  seemed  to  respond 
To  some  voice  in  herself.     With  no 

trouble  descried, 
To  each  troubled  inquiry  she  calmly 

replied. 
Not  so  he.    At  the  sight  of  that  face 

back  again 
To  his  mind  came  the  ghost  of  a 

long-stifled  pain, 
A    remembered     resentment,     half 

checked  by  a  wild 
And  relentful  regret  like  a  mother- 
less child 
Softly    seeking     admittance,    with 

plaintive  appeal, 
To  the  heart  which  resisted  its  en- 
trance. 

Lucile 
And  himself    thus,  however,  with 

freedom  allowed 
To  old  friends,  talking  still  side  by 

side,  left  the  crowd 
By  the  crowd  unobserved.    Not  un- 
noticed, however, 
By  the  Duke  and  Matilda.    Matilda 

had  never 
Seen  her  husband's  new  friend. 

She  had  followed  by  chance, 
Or  by  instinct;   the    sudden,    half- 
menacing  glance 
Which  the  Duke,  when  he  witnessed 

their  meeting,  had  turned 
On  Lucile  and  Lord  Alfred  ;  and, 

scared,  she  discerned 
On  his  f  eatm-es  the  shade  of  a  gloom 

so  profound 
That    she    shuddered  instinctively. 
Deaf  to  the  sound 


88 


LUCJLE. 


Of  her  voice^to  some  startled  inquiry 

of  hers 
Be  replied  not,  but  murmui'ed,  "  Lu- 

cile  de  Nevers 
Once  again  then  ?  so  be  it  I "  In  the 

mind  of  that  man, 
At  that  moment,  there  shaped  itself 

vaguely  the  plan 
Of  a  purpose  malignant  and  dark, 

such  alone 
(To  his  own  secret  heart  but  unper- 

fectly  shown) 
As  could  spring  from  the  cloudy, 

fierce  chaos  of  thought 
By  which  all   his  natiure  to  tumult 

was  wrought. 

XIX. 

"  So  1 "  he  thought,  '*  they  meet  thus  : 

and  reweave  the  old  charm  ! 
And  she  hangs  on  his  voice,  and  she 

leans  on  his  arm, 
And  she  heeds  me  not,  seeks  me  not, 

recks  not  of  me  ! 
O,  what  if  I  showed  her  that  I,  too, 

can  be 
Loved  by  one — her  own  rival — ^more 

fair  and  more  yoimg?" 
The  serpent  rose  in  him  :  a  serpent 

which,  stung, 
Sought  to  sting. 

Each  unconscious,  indeed,  of  the 

eye 
Fixed  upon  them,  Lucile  and  my 

lord  sauntered  by. 
In  converse  which    seemed    to    be 

earnest.     A  smile 
Now  and  then  seemed  to  show  where 

their  thoughts  touched.  Mean- 
while 
The  muse  of  this  story,  convinced 

that  they  need  her, 
To  the  Duke  and  Matilda  returns, 

gentle  Eeader. 

XX. 

The  Duke,  with  that  sort  of  aggres- 
sive false  praise 

Which  is  meant  a  resentful  remon- 
strance to  raise 

From  a  listener  (as  sometimes  a 
judge,  just  before 


He  pulls  down  the  black  cap,  very 

gently  goes  o'er 
The  case  for  the  prisoner,  and  deals     4, 

tenderly  -  I 

With  the  man  he  is  minded  to  hang    1 

by  and  by). 
Had  referred  to  Lucile,   and  then 

stopped  to  detect 
In  the  face  of  Matilda  the  growing 

effect 
Of    the    words    he    had    dropped. 

There' s  no  weapon  that  slays 
Its  victim  so  surely  (if  well  aimed) 

as  praise.  * 

Thus,  a  pause  on  their  converse  had 

fallen:  and  now 
Each     was      silent,      preoccupied, 

thoughtful. 

You  know 
There  are  moments  when  silence, 

prolonged  and  unbroken, 
More  expressive   may  be    than  all 

words  ever  spoken. 
It  is  when  the  heart  has  an  instinct 

of  what 
In  the  heart  of  another  is  passing. 

And  that 
In  the  heart  of  Matilda,  what  was  it  ? 

Whence  came 
To  her  cheek  on  a  sudden  that  trem- 
ulous flame  ? 
What  weighed  down  her  head  ? 

All  your  eye  could  discover 
Was    the    fact    that    Matilda    was 

,      troubled.     Moreover 
That  trouble  the  Duke's  presence 

seemed  to  renew. 
She,   however,    broke    silence,    the 

first  of  the  two. 
The  Duke  was  too  prudent  to  shat- 
ter the  spell 
Of  a  silence  which  suited  his  pur- 
pose so  well. 
She  was  plucking  the  leaves  from  a 

pale  blush  rose  blossom 
Which  had  fallen  from  the  nosegay 

she  held  in  her  bosom. 
"This  poor  flower,"  she  said,  "seems 

it  not  out  of  place 
In  this    hot,   lamplit  air,   with  its 

fresh,  fragile  grace  ?" 


LVCILE. 


Bq 


She  bent  her  head  ]6w  a?  she  spoke. 
VVitli  a  i mile 

The  Duke  watched  her  caressing  the 
leaves  all  the  while, 

And  continued  on  his  side  the  si- 
lence.    He  knew 

This  would  force  his  companion 
their  talk  to  renew 

At  the  point  that  he  wished  ;  and 
Matilda  divined 

The  significant  pause  with  new 
trouble  of  mind. 

She  lifted  one  moment  her  head  ; 
hut  her  look 

Encountered  the  ardent  regard  of 
the  Duke, 

And  dropped  back  on  her  floweret 
abashed.     Then,  still  seeking 

The  assurance  she  fancied  she 
showed  him  by  speaking, 

She  conceived  herself  safe  in  adopt- 
ing again 

The  theme  she  should  most  have 
avoided  just  then. 

XXI. 

"  Duke,"  she  said,  .  .  .  and  she  felt, 

as  she  spoke,  her  cheek  burned, 

"  You  know,  then,  this  .  .  .  lady  ?  " 

"  Too  well ! "  he  returned. 

Matilda. 
True  ;  you  drew  with  emotion  her 
portrait  just  now. 

Luvois. 
"With  emotion  ? 

Matilda. 

Yes,  yes  !  you  described  her,  I  know, 

As  possessed  of  a  charm  all  unri- 
valled. 

Luvois. 

Alas  ! 

You  mistook  me  completely  !  You, 
madam,  surpass 

This  lady  as  moonlight  does  lamp- 
light ;  as  youtii 

Surpasses  its  best  imitations ;  as 
truth 

The  fairest  of  falsehoods  surpasses  ; 
as  nature 


Surpasses  art's  masterpiece  ;  ay,  as 
the  creature 

Fresh  and  pure  in  its  native  adorn- 
ment surpasses 

All  the  charms  got  by  heart  at  the 
v/orld's  looking-glasses  ! 

**Yet  you  said," — she  continued 
v/ith  some  trepidation, 

*'  That  you  quite  comprehended  "... 
a  slight  hesitation 

Shook  the  sentence,  ..."  a  passion 
so  strong  as  " 

Luvois. 

True,  true  ! 
But  not  In  a  man  that  had  once 

looked  at  you. 
Nor  can  I  conceive,  or  excuse,  or .  .  . 
''Hush,  hush!" 
She  broke  in,  all  more  fair  for  one 

innocent  blush. 
"Between  man  and  woman  these 

things  differ  so ! 
It  may  be  that  the  world  pardons  .  . 

(how  should  I  know  ?) 
In  you  what  it  visits  on  us  ;  or  'tis 

true. 
It  may  be,  that  v/e  women  are  better 

than  you." 

Luvois. 

"Who  denies  it  ?  Yet,  madam,  once 
more  you  mistake. 

The  world,  in  its  judgment,  some 
difference  may  make 

'Twixt  the  m.an  and  the  woman,  so 
far  as  respects 

Its  social  enactments  ;  but  not  as 
affects 

The  one  sentiment  which,  it  were 
easy  to  prove, 

Is  the  sole  law  we  look  to  the  mo- 
ment we  love. 

Matilda. 

That  may  be.    Yet  I  think  I  should 

be  less  severe. 
Although  so  inexperienced  in  such 

things,  I  fear 


)o 


LUCILE. 


I  have  learned  that  the  heart  cannot 

always  repress 
Or  account  for  the  feelings  which 

sway  it. 

*'  Yes  !  yes  ! 
That  is  too  true,  indeed  !"  ...  the 

Duke  sighed. 

And  again 
For  one  moment  in  silence  continued 

the  twain. 

xxn. 

At  length  the  Duke  slowly,  as  though 
he  had  needed 

All  this  time  to  repress  his  emotions, 
proceeded  : 

"  And  yet  !  .  .  .  what  avails,  then,  to 
woman  the  gift 

Of  a  beauty  like  youi's,  if  it  cannot 
uplift 

Her  heart  from  the  reach  of  on''/ 
doubt,  one  despair, 

One  pang  of  wronged  love,  to  which 
women  less  fair 

Are  exposed,  when  they  love  ?  " 

With  a  quick  change  of  tone, 

As  though  by  resentment  impelled, 
he  went  on  : — 

"  The  name  that  you  bear,  it  is  whis- 
pered, you  took 

From  love,   not  convention.    "Well, 
lady,  .  .  .  that  look 

So  excited,  so  keen,  on  the  face  you 
must  know 

Throughout  all  its  expressions, — that 
rapturous  glow — 

Those  eloquent  featm'es — significant 
eyes— 

Which  that  pale  woman  sees,  yet  be- 
trays no  surprise," 

(He  pointed  his  hand  as  he  spoke  to 
the  door, 

Fixing  with  it  Lucile  and  Lord  Al- 
fred,) ..."  before. 

Have  you  ever  once  seen  what  just 
now  you  may  view 

In  that  face  so  familiar  ?  .  .  .  no, 
lady,  'tis  new. 

young,  lovely,  and  loving,  no  doubt, 
as  you  are. 

Are  you  loved  ?"  ... 


XXIII. 

He  looked  at  her — paused — felt  iff"* 

thus  far 
The  ground  held  yet.    The  ardor  with 

which  he  had  spoken. 
This  close,  rapid  question,  thus  sud- 
denly broken. 
Inspired  in  Matilda  a  vague  sense  of 

fear, 
As  though  some  indefinite  danger  \ 

were  near. 
With  composure,  however,  at  once 

she  replied  : —  1 

"  'Tis  three  years  since  the  day  when  i'. 

I  first  was  a  bride,  ; 

And  my  husband  I  never  had  cause  f 

to  suspect ;  I 

Nor  ever  have  stooped,  sir,  such  cause  I 

to  detect.  [see —  , 

Yet  if  in  his  looks  or  his  acts  I  should  ' 
See,  or  fancy — some  moment's  ob-  ' 

livion  of  me,  • 

I  trust  that  I  too  should  forget  it, —  } 

for  you  I 

Must  have  seen  that  my  heart  is  my  | 

husband's." 

The  hue 
On  her  cheek,  with  the  effort  where- 
with to  the  Duke 
She  had  uttered  this  vague  and  half- 
frightened  rebuke. 
Was  white  as  the  rose  in  her  hand. 

The  last  word 
Seemed  to  die  on  her  lip,  and  could 

scarcely  be  heard. 
There  was  silence  again. 

A  great  step  had  been  made 
By  the  Duke  in  the  words  he  that 

evening  had  said. 
There,  half  drowned  by  the  music, 

Matilda,  that  night, 
Had  listened, — long  listened,  —  no 

doubt,  in  despite 
Of    herself,   to  a  voice  she  should 

never  have  heard. 
And  her  heart  by  that  voice  had 

been  troubled  and  stirred. 
And  so,  having  suffered  in  silence  hi3 

eye 
To  fathom  her  own,  he  resumed,  with 

a  sigh  : 


il 


LUCILE. 


91 


xxrv. 

**Will   you    suffer   me,  lady,  your 
thoughts  to  invade 

By  disclosing  my  own  ?    The  posi- 
tion," he  said, 

**In  which  we    so  strangely  seem 
placed  may  excuse 

The  frankness  and  force  of  the  words 
which  I  use. 

You  say  that  your  heart  is  your  hus- 
band's.    You  say 

That  you  love  him.     You  think  so, 
of  course,  lady  .  .  .  nay, 

Such  a  love,  I  admit,  were  a  merit, 
no  doubt. 

But,  trust  me,  no  true  love  there  can 
be  without 

Its  dread  penalty — jealousy. 

"  Well,  do  not  start  ! 

Until  now, — either  thanks  to  a  singu- 
lar art 

Of  supreme  self-control,   you  have 
held  them  all  down 

Unrevealed  in  your  heart, — or  you 
never  have  known 

Even  one  of  those  fierce  irresistible 
pangs 

Which  deep  passion  engenders  ;  that 
anguish  which  hangs 

On  the  heart  like  a  nightmare,  by 
jealousy  bred. 

But  if,  lady,  the  love  you  describe,  in 
the  bed  [posed 

Of  a  blissful  security  thus  hath  re- 
Undisturbed  with  mild  eyelids  on 
happiness  closed, 

Were  it  not  to  expose  to  a  peril  un- 
just, 

And  most  cruel,  that  happy  repose 
you  so  trust 

To  meet,  to  receive,  and,  indeed,  it 
may  be,  [to  see 

For  how  long  I  know  not,  continue 

A  woman  whose  place  rivals  yours  in 
the  life 

And  the  heart  which  not  only  your 
title  of  wife. 

But  also  (forgive  me  !)  your  beauty 
alone. 

Should  have  made  wholly  yours  ? — 
You,  who  gave  all  your  own  1 


Reflect ! — 'tis  the  peace  of  existence 
you  stake 

On  the  turn  of  a  die.  And  for  whose 
— for  his  sake  ? 

While  you  witness  this  woman,  the 
false  point  of  view 

From  which  she  must  now  be  re- 
garded by  you 

Will  exaggerate  to  you,  whatever 
they  be. 

The  charms  I  admit  she  possesses. 
Tome 

They  are  trivial  indeed  ;  yet  to  your 
eyes,  I  fear 

And  foresee,  they  will  true  and  in- 
trinsic appear. 

Self-unconscious,  and  sweetly  unable 
to  guess 

How  more  loveJy  by  far  is  the  grace 
you  possess. 

You  will  wrong  your  own  beauty. 
The  graces  of  art. 

You  will  take  for  the  natural  charm 
(tf  the  heart  ; 

Studied  manners,  the  brilliant  and 
bold  repartee. 

Will  too  soon  in  that  fatal  compari- 
son be 

To  your  fancy  more  fair  than  the 
sweet  timid  sense 

Which,  in  shrinking,  betrays  its  own 
best  eloquence. 

O  then,  lady,  then,  you  will  feel  in 
your  heart 

The  poisonous  pain  of  a  fierce  jeal- 
ous dart  ! 

While  you  see  her,  yourself  you  no 
longer  will  see, — 

You  will  hear  her,  and  hear  not  your- 
self,— you  will  be 

Unhappy ;  unhappy,  because  you 
will  deem 

Your  own  power  less  great  than  her 
power  will  seem. 

And  I  shall  not  be  by  your  side,  day 
by  day  [to  say 

In  despite  of  your  noble  displeasure, 

'  You  are  fairer  than  she,  as  the  star 
is  more  fair 

Than  the  diamond,  the  brightest 
•  that  beauty  can  wear  I '  '* 


92 


LUC  TLB. 


XXV. 

This  appeal,  botli  by  looks  and  by 

language,  increased 
The  trouble  Matilda  felt  grown  in 

her  breast. 
Still  she  spoke  with  what  calmness 

she  could  : — 

"  Sir,  the  while 
I  thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  faint 

scornful  smile, 
**  For  your  fervor  in  painting  my 

fancied  distress  : 
Allow  me  the  right  some  surprise  to 

express 
At  the  zeal  you  betray  in  disclosing 

to  me 
The    possible    depth    of    my    own 

misery." 
"  That  zeal  would  not  startle  you, 

madam,"  he  said, 
"  Could  you  read  in  my  heart,  as 

myself  I  have  read, 
The  peculiar  interest  which  causes 

that  zeal—"  • 

Matilda  her  terror  no  more  could 
conceal. 

"Duke,"  she  answered  in  accents 
short,  cold,  and  severe. 

As  she  rose  from  her  seat,  *'  I  con- 
tinue to  hear  ; 

But  pennit  me  to  say,  I  no  more 
imderstand." 

"  Forgive  ! "  with  a  nervous  appeal 

of  the  hand. 
And    a   well-feigned    confusion    of 

voice  and  of  look, 
"Forgive,  O,  forgive  me  !"  at  once 

cried  the  I)uke, 
"I  forgot  that  you  know    me    so 

slightly.     Your  leave 
I  entreat   (from  your  auger    those 

words  to  retrieve) 
For  one  moment  to  speak  of  myself, 

— for  I  think 
That  you  wrong  me —  " 
His  voice  as  in  pain  seemed  to 

sink  ; 
And  tears  in  his  eyes,  as  he  lifted 

them,  glistened. 


Matilda,  despite  of  herself,  sat  and 
listened. 


"  Beneath  an  exterior  which  seems, 

and  may  be, 
Worldly,     frivolous,     careless,     my 

heart  hides  in  me," 
He    continued,    "a    sorrow    which 

draws  me  to  side 
With  all  things  that  suffer.     Nay, 

laugh  not,"  he  cried, 
"  At  so  strange  an  avowal. 

"I  seek  at  a  ball, 
For  instance, — the  beauty  admired 

by  all  ? 
No  !  some  jjlain,  insignificant  creat- 
ure, who  sits 
Scorned  of  course  by  the  beauties, 

and  shmmed  by  the  wits. 
All    the    world    is    accustomed    to 

wound,  or  neglect. 
Or  oppress,   claims  my  heart    and 

commands  my  respect. 
No  Quixote,  I  do  not  affect  to  be- 
long, 
I  admit,  to  those  chartered  redres- 

sers  of  wrong  ,• 
But  I  seek  to  console,  where  I  can. 

'Tis  a  part 
Not  brilliant,   I  own,  yet  its  joys 

bring  no  smart." 
These  trite  words,  from    the    tone 

which  he  gave  them,  received 
An    appearance    of    truth,     which 

might  well  be  believed 
By  a  heart  shrewder  yet  than  Ma» 

tilda's. 

And  so 
He  continued  .  .  .  "  O  lady  I  alas, 

•  could  you  know 
What  injustice  and  wrong  in  this 

world  I  have  seen  ! 
How  many  a  woman,   believed  to 

have  been  [aside 

Without  a  regret,  I  have  known  turn 
To  burst  into  heart-broken  tears  un- 

descried  ! 
On  ho ^ many  a  lip  have  I  witnessed 

the  smile 


LrCTLS. 


93 


WMch  but  hid  whd,t  was  breaking 

tlie  poor  heart  the  while  ! " 
Said  Matilda,  "  Your  life,  it  would 

seem,  then,  must  be 
One  long  act  of  devotion." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  he  ; 
"  But  at  least  that  devotion  small 

merit  can  boast, 
For  one  day  may  yet  come, — if  one 

day  at  the  most, — 
"VTlien,  perceiving  at  last  all  the  dif- 
ference— how  great  ! — 
'Twixt  the  lieart  that  neglects  and 

the  heart  that  can  wait. 
'Twixt  the  natures  that  pity,   the 

natures  that  pain, 
Some  woman,  that  else  might  have 

passed  in  disdain 
Or  indifference  by  me, — in  passing 

that  day 
Might  pause  with  a  word  or  a  smile 

to  repay 
This  devotion,— and  then"  .  .  . 

xxvin. 

To  Matilda's  relief 

At  that  moment   her  husband   ap- 
proached. 

With  some  grief 

I  must  own  that  her  welcome,  per- 
chance, was  expressed 

The  more  eagerly  just  for  one  twinge 
in  her  breast 

Of  a  conscience  disturbed,  and  her 
smile  not  less  warm, 

Though  she   saw  the  Countesse  de 
Nevers  on  his  arm. 

The  Duke  turned  and  adjusted  his 
collar. 

Thought  he, 

"  Good  !  the  gods  fight  my  battle  to- 
night.    I  foresee 

That  the  family  doctor's  the  part  I 
must  play. 

Very  well  !   but   the   patients   my 
visits  shall  pay." 

Lord  Alfred  presented  Lucile  to  his 
wife  ; 

And  Matilda,  repressing  with  effort 
the  strife 


Of  emotions  which  made  her  voice 
shake,  murmured  low 

Somo  faint,  troubled  greeting.     The 
Dulce,  with  a  bow 

Which  betokened  a  distant  defiance, 
replied 

To  Lucile' s  startled  cry,  as  surprised 
she  descried 

Her  former  gay  wooer.    Anon,  with 
the  grace 

Of  that  kindness  which  seeks  to  win 
kindness,  her  place 

She    assumed    by    Matilda,   uncon- 
scious, perchance, 

Or  resolved  not  to  notice,  the  half- 
frightened  glance 

That  followed  that  movement. 

The  Duke  to  his  feet 

Arose  ;  and,  in  silence,  relinquished 
his  seat. 

One  must  own  that  the  moment  was ' 
awkward  for  all  ; 

But  nevertheless,  before  long,  the 
strange  thrall 

Of  Lucile' s    gracious  tact  was    by 
every  one  felt, 

And  from  each  the  reserve  seemed, 
reluctant,  to  melt  ; 

Thus,  conversing  together,  the  whole 
of  the  four 

Through  the  crowd  sauntered,  smil- 
ing. 

XXIX. 

Approaching  the  door, 
Eugene  de  Luvoif,  who  had  fallen 

behind, 
By  Lucile,   after    some    hesitation, 

was  joined 
With  a  gesture  of  gentle  and  kindly 

appeal 
Which  appeared  to  imply,   without 

w*ords,  "  Let  us  feel 
That  the  friendship  between  us  in 

years  that  are  fled. 
Has  survived  one  mad  moment  for- 
gotten," she  said, 
"  You  remain,  Duke,  at  Ems  ?  " 

He  turned  on  her  a  look 
Of  frigid,  resentful,  and  sullen  re^ 

buke; 


94 


LUCILE. 


And  then,  with  a  more  than  signif- 
icant glance 

At  Matilda,   maliciously  answered, 
"  Perchance 

I  have  here    an    attraction.      And 
you  ?  "  he  returned. 

Lucile's  eyes  had  followed  his  own, 
and  discerned 

The  boast  they  implied. 

He  repeated,  '*  And  you  ?  " 

And,  still  watching  Matilda,  she  an- 
swered, "  I  too." 

And  he  thought,  as  with  that  word 
she  left  him,  she  sighed. 

The  next  moment  her  place  she  re- 
sumed by  the  side 

Of  Matilda  ;  and  soon  they  shook 
hands  at  the  gate 

Of  the  self-same  hotel. 

XXX. 

One  depressed,  one  elate, 

The  Duke  and  Lord  Alfred  again, 
through  the  glooms 

Of  the  thick  linden  alley,  returned 
to  the  Rooms. 

His  cigar  each  had  lighted,  a  moment 
before, 

At  the  inn,  as  they  turned,  arm-in- 
arm, from  the  door. 

Ems   cigars   do  not  cheer  a  man's 
spirits,  experto 

[Me    miserum  quofJes !)   crede  Ro- 
berto. 

In  silence,  awhile,  they  walked  on- 
ward. 

At  last 

The  Duke's  thoughts  to    language 
half  consciously  passed. 

Luvois. 
Once  more  !  yet  once  more  I 

Alfbed. 

What? 
Lirvois. 
We  meet  her,  once  more, 
The  woman  for  whom  we  two  mad 

men  of  yore 
(Laugh,  mon  cher  Alfred,  laugh  I ) 

were  about  to  destroy 
Each  the  other  I 


Alff.ed. 
It  is  not  with  laughter  that  I 
Raise  the  ghost  of  that  once  troubled 

time.     Say  !  can  you 
Recall  it  with  coolness  and  quietude 
now  ? 

Luvois.  ' 

Now  ?  yes  !  I,  vion  cher,  am  a  tnie  | 

Parisien  : 
i^ow,  the  red  revolution,  the  tocsin    [ 

and  then 

The  dance  and  the  play.     I  am  now  ! 

at  the  play.  i 

Alfred. 

At  the  play,  are  you  now  ?    Then  ( 

perchance  I  now  may  | 

Presume,  Duke,  to  ask  you  what,  | 

ever  until 
Such  a  moment,  I  waited  ...  i 

Luvois. 
Oh  !  ask  what  you  will,    i 
Franc  jeu  !  on  the  table  my  cards  I  | 

spread  out. 
Ask  I  ' 

Alfred. 
Duke,  you  were  called  to  a  meeting 
(no  doubt 
You  remember  it  yet)  with  Lucile. 

It  was  night 
Wlien  you  went  ;  and  before  you  re- 

tm-ned  it  was  light. 
We  met  :  you  accosted  me  then  with 

a  brow 
Bright  with  triumph  :   your  worda 

(you  remember  them  now  ?) 
Were  "Let  us  be  friends  ! " 


Luvois. 
Alfred. 


Well? 


How  then,  after  that, 
Can  you  and  she  meet  as  acquaint- 
ances ? 

Luvois. 

What  ! 
Did  she  not  then,  herself,  the  Com." 

tesse  de  Nevers, 
Solve  your  riddle  to-night  with  those 
soft  lips  of  hers  ? 


LUCILE. 


95 


Alfred. 

In  our  converse  to-night  we  avoided 
the  past. 

But  the  question  I  ask  should  be  an- 
swered at  last  : 

By  you,  if  you  will  ;  if  you  will  not, 
by  her. 

Luvois. 

Indeed  ?  but  that  question,  milord, 
can  it  stir 

Such  an  interest  in  you,  if  your  pas- 
sion be  o'er  ? 

Alfred. 
Yes.     Esteem  may  remain,  although 

love  be  no  more. 
Lucile  asked  me,  this  night,  to  my 

wife  (understand 
To  my  wife  !)  to  present  her.     I  did 

so.     Her  hand 
Has  clasped  that  of  Matilda.     We 

gentlemen  owe 
Respect  to  the  name  that  is  ours  : 

and,  if  so,  [respect. 

To  the  woman  that  bears  it  a  twofold 
Answer,  Due  de  Luvois  !  Did  Lucile 

then  reject 
The  proffer  you  made  of  your  hand 

and  yom-  name  ? 
Or  did  you  on  her  love  then  relin- 
quish a  claim 
Urged  before  ?    I  ask  bluntly  this 

question,  because 
My  title  to  do  so  is  clear  by  the  laws 
That  all  gentlemen  honor.     Make 

only  one  sign 
That  you  know  of  Lucile  de  Nevers 

aught,  in  fine, 
For  which,  if  your  own  virgin  sister 

were  by, 
From  Lucile  you  would  shield  her 

acquaintance,  and  I 
And  Matilda  leave  Ems  on  the  mor- 
row. 

XXXI. 

The  Duke 
Hesitated  and  paused.      He    could 

tell,  by  the  look 
Of  the  man  at  his  side,    that    he 

meant  what  he  eaid. 


And  there  flashed  in  a  moment  these 
thoughts  through  his  head  : 

"  Leave  Ems  !  would  that  suit  me  ? 
no  !  that  were  again 

To  mar  all.   And  besides,  if  I  do  not 
explain, 

She    herself  will ,  .  .  et  puis,    il   a 
raison ;  on  est 

Gentdhomme  avant  tout  I  "     He  re- 
plied therefore, 

"  Nay  ! 

Madame  de  Nevers  had  rejected  me. 

In  those  days,  I  was  mad  ;  and  in 
some  mad  reply 

I  threatened  the  life  of  the  rival  to 
whom 

That  rejection  was  due,  I  was  led  to 
presmne. 

She  feared  for  his  life  ;  and  the  letter 
which  then 

She  wrote  me,   I  showed  you  ;  we 
met  :  and  again 

My  hand  was  refused,  and  my  love 
was  denied, 

And  the  glance  you  mistook  was  the 
vizard  which  Pride 

Lends  to  Humiliation. 

"  And  so,"  half  in  jest, 

He  went  on,  "  in  this  best  world,  'tis 
all  for  the  best ; 

You  are  wedded,  (blessed  English- 
man ! )  wedded  to  one 

Whose  past  can  be  called  into  ques- 
tion by  none  : 

And  I  (fickle  Frenchman  ! )  can  still 
laugh  to  feel 

I  am  lord  of  myself,  and  the  Mode  : 
and  Lucile 

Still  shines  from  her  pedestal,  frigid 
and  fair 

As  yon  German  moon  o'er  the  linden- 
tops  there  !  [troth 

A  Dian  in  marble  that  scorns  any 

With  the  little  love-gods,   whom  I 
thank  for  us  both, 

While  she  smiles  from  her  lonely 
Olympus  apart, 

That  her  arrows  are  marble  as  well 
as  her  heart. 

Stay  at  Ems,  Alfred  Yargrave  I " 


96 


LUCILR. 


The  Duke,  with  a  smile, 
Turned   and     entered    the     Eooms 
which,    thus    talking,    mean- 
while, 
They  had  reached. 

xxxin. 

Alfred  Yargrave  strode  ou  (over- 
thrown 
Heart  and  mind  !)  in  the  darkness 

bewildered,  alone  : 
"  And  so,"  to  himself  did  he  mutter, 

"  and  so 
'Twas     to    rescue    my    life,    gentle 

spirit  !  and,  oh. 
For  this  did  I  doubt  her  ?  .  .  .  a  light 

word — a  look — 
The  mistake  of  a  moment  ! .  .  .  for 

this  I  forsook — 
For  this  ?    Pardon,  pardon,  Lucile  ! 

OLucile  !" 
Thought  and  memory  rang,  like  a 

funeral  peal, 
Weary  changes  on  one  dirge-like  note 

through  his  brain, 
As  he  strayed  down  the  darkness. 


Ee-entering  again 
The  Casino,  the  Duke  smiled.    He 

turned  to  roulette. 
And  sat  down,  and  played  fast,  and 

lost  largely,  and  yet 
He  still  smiled  :  night  deepened  :  he 

played  his  last  number  : 
Went  home  :   and  soon  slept  :  and 

still  smiled  in  his  slumber. 


In  his  desolate  Maxims,  La  Roche- 
foucauld wrote, 

"In  the  grief    or   mischance  of  a 
friend  you  may  note. 

There  is  something  which    always 
gives  pleasure." 

Alas! 

That  reflection  fell  short  of  the  ti-uth 
as  it  was. 


La  Rochefoucauld    might   have  as  j 

truly  set  down, — 
"  No  misfortune,  but  what  some  one 

turns  to  his  own 
Advantage  its  mischief  :  no  sorrow, 

but  of  it  [profit : 

There  ever    is    somebody  ready  to 
No  afiliction  without  its  stock-job-j 

bers,  who  all 
Gamble,  speculate,  play  on  the  rise 

and  the  fall 
Of  another  man's  heart,  and  make 

traffic  in  it." 
Burn  thy  book,  O  La  Rochefoucauld  ! 
Fool  !  one  man's  wit 
All  men's  selfishness  how  should  it 

fathom  ? 

O  sage, 
Dost  thou  satirize  Nature  ? 

She  laughs  at  thy  page. 


CANTO  II. 


Cousin  John  to  Cousin  Alfred. 

<'  LoiTDO:x,  18—. 

'•'  My  dear  Alfred  : 

Your  last  letters  put  me  in  pain. 
This  contempt  of  existence,  this  list- 
less disdain 
Of  your  own  life, — its  joys  and  its 

duties, — the  deuce   . 
Take  my  wits  if  they  find  for  it  half 

an  excuse  ! 
I  wish  that  some  Frenchman  would 

shoot  off  your  leg. 
And  compel  you  to  stump  through 

the  world  on  a  peg. 
I  wish  that  you  had,  like  myself, 

(more's  the  pity  !) 
To  sit  seven  hours  on  this  cursed 

committee. 
I  wish,  that  you  knew,  sir,  how  salt 

is  the  bread 
Of  another — (what  is  it  that  Dante 

has  said  ?) 
And  the  trouble  of  other  men's  stairs. 

In  a  word, 
I  wish  fate  had  some  real  affliction 

conferred 


LUCILE. 


97 


On    your   whimsical    self,    that,   at 

least,  you  had  cause 
For    neglecting    life's    duties,    and 

damning  its  laws  ! 
This  pressure   against  all  the  pur- 
pose of  life, 
This  self-ebullition,  and  ferment,  and 

strife. 
Betokened,  I  grant  that  it  may  be  in 

'truth. 
The  richness   and   strength  of  the 

new  v.ine  of  youth. 
But  if,  when  the  wine  should  have 

mellowed  with  time, 
Being  bottled  and  binned,  to  a  flavor 

sublime 
It  retains  the  same  acrid,  incongru- 
ous taste, 
Why,  the  sooner  to  throw  it  away 

that  we  haste 
The  better,  I  take  it.     And  this  vice 

of  snarling, 
Self-love's  little  iapdog,  the  overfed 

darling 
Of  a  hypochondriacal  fancy  appears. 
To  my  thinking,  at  least,  in  a  man 

of  your  years, 
At  the  midiioon  of  manhood  with 

plenty  to  do, 
And  every  incentive    for    doing  it 

too, — 
With  the  duties  of  life  just  suffi- 
ciently pressing 
For  prayer,  and  of  joys  more  than 

most  men  for  blessing  ; 
With  a  pretty  young  wife,   and   a 

pretty  full  purse, — 
Like  poltroonery,  puerile  truly,   or 

,  worse  ! 
I  wish  I  could  get  you  at  least  to 

agree 
To  take  life   as  it  is,  and  consider 

with  me, 
If  it  be  not  all  smiles,  that  it  is  not 

all  sneers  ; 
It  admits  honest  laughter,  and  needs 

honest  tears. 
Do  you  think  none  have  known  but 

yourself  all  the  pain 
Of  hopes  that  retreat,  and  regrets 

that  remain '? 


And  all  the  wide  distance  fate  fixes, 

no  doubt, 
'Twixt  the  life  that's  within,  and  the 

life  that's  without  ? 
What  one  of  us  finds  the  world  just 

as  he  likes  ? 
Or  gets  what    he  wants  when   he 

wants  it  ?    Or  strikes 
Without  missing  the  thing  that  he 

strikes  at  the  first  ? 
Or  walks  without  stumbling  ?    Or 

quenches  his  thirst 
At  one  draught  ?    Bah  !    I  tell  you  1 

I,  bachelor  John, 
Have  had  griefs  of  my  own.     But 

what  then  ?    I  push  on 
All  the  faster  perchance  that  I  yet 

feel  the  pain 
Of  my  last  fall,  albeit  I  may  stLim.ble 

again. 
God  means  every  man  to  be  happy, 

be  sure. 
He  sends  us  no  sorrows  that  have 

not  some  cure. 
Our  duty  down  here  is  to  do,  not  to 

know. 
Live  as  though  life  were  earnest,  and 

life  will  be  so. 
Let  each  moment,  like  Time's  last 

ambassador,  come  : 
It  will  wait  to  deliver  its  message  ; 

and  some 
Sort  of  answer  it  merits.     It  is  not 

the  deed 
A  man  does,  but  the  way  that  he 

does  it,  should  plead 
For  the  man's  comjiensation  in  do- 
ing it. 

"Here, 
My    next    neighbor's    a    man  with 

twelve  thousand  a  year, 
Who  deems  that  life  has  not  a  pas- 
time more  pleasant 
Than  to  follow  a  fox  or  to  slaughter 

a  pheasant. 
Yet  this  fellow  goes  thi'ough  a  con- 
tested election. 
Lives  in  London,  and  sits,  like  the 

soul  of  dejection. 
Ail  the  day  through  upon  a  commit- 
tee, and  late 


98 


LUCILB. 


To  the  last,  every  night,  through  the 
dreary  debate, 

As    though   he  were  getting  each 
speaker  by  heart. 

Though  amongst  them  he  never  pre- 
sumes to  take  part. 

One  asks  himself  why,  without  mur- 
mur or  question, 

He  foregoes  all  his  tastes,  and  de- 
stroys his  digestion, 

For  a  labor  of  which  the  result  seems 
so  small. 

*Tbe  man  is  ambitious,'  you  say. 
Not  at  all. 

He  has  just  sense  enough  to  be  fully 
aware 

That  he  never  can  hope  to  be  Pre- 
mier, or  share 

The  renown  of  a  Tully  ; — or  even  to 
hold 

A  subordinate  office.     He  is  not  so 
bold 

As  to  fancy  the  House  for  ten  min- 
utes would  bear 

With  patience  his  modest  opinions 
to  hear. 

'  But  he  wants  something  I ' 
"  What  I  with  twelve  thousand  a 
year? 

What  could  Government  give  him 
would  be  half  so  dear 

To  his  heart  as  a  walk  with  a  dog 
and  a  gun 

Through  his  own  pheasant  woods, 
or  a  capital  run  ? 

*  No  ;  but  vanity  fills  out  the  emptiest 
brain  ; 

The  man  would  be  more  than  his 
neighbors,  'tis  plain  ; 

And    the    drudgery    drearily    gone 
through  in  town 

Is  more  than  repaid  by  provincial 
renown. 

Enough  if  some  Marchioness,  lively 
and  loose, 

Shall  have  eyed  him  with  passing 
complaisance  ;  the  goose. 

If  the  Fashion  to  him  open  one  of 
its  doors. 

As  proud  as  a  sultan,  returns  to  his 
booni. ' 


Wrong  again  !  if  you  think  so. 

*'  For,  primo ;  my  friend  :| 

Is  the  head  of  a  family  known  from 
one  end 

Of  his  shire  to  the  other,  as  the  old- 
est ;  and  therefore 

He  despises  fine  lords  and  fine  ladies. 
He  care  for 

A  peerage  ?  no,  truly  I    Secondo  ;  he 
rarely 

Or  never  goes  out :  dines  at  Bella- 
my's sparely. 

And  abhors  what  you  call  the  gay 
world. 

"  Then,  I  ask, 

What  inspires,  and  consoles,  such  a 
self-imposed  task 

As   the  life  of  this  man,— but  the 
sense  of  its  duty  ? 

And  I  swear  that  the  eyes  of  the 
haughtiest  beauty 

Have  never  inspired  in  my  soul  that 
intense, 
mtial, 
sense  [man, 

Of  heartfelt  admiration  I  feel  for  this 

As  I  see  him  beside  me  ;  —  there, 
wearing  the  wan 

London  daylight  away,  on  his  hum- 
drum committee  ; 

So  unconscious  of  all  that  awakens 
my  pity. 

And  wonder — and  worship,  I  might 
say. 

"  Tome 

There  seems  something  nobler  than 
genius  to  be 

In  that  dull  patient  labor  no  genius 
relieves, 

That  absence  of  all  joy  which  yet 
never  grieves  ; 

The  humility   of  it  !  the  grandeur 
withal  ! 

The    sublimity    of    it!      And  yet, 
should  you  call 

The  man's  own  very  slow  apprehen- 
sion to  this, 

He   Mould   ask,   with  a  stare,  what 
sublimity  is  ! 

His  work  is  the  duty  to  which  he 
was  born  ; 


LUCTLE. 


He  accepts  it,  -witliont  ostentation  or 

scorn  : 
And  this  man  is  no  uncommon  type 

(I  thank  Heaven  ! ) 
Of  this  land's  common  men.     In  all 

other  lands,  even 
The  type's    self    is  v^'anting.     Per- 

cliance,  'tis  the  reason 
That    Government  .oscillates    ever 

'twixt  treason 
And  tyranny  elsewhere. 

'*  I  wander  away 
Too  far,  though,  from  what  I  was 

wishing  to  say. 
You,  for  instance,  read  Plato.     You 

know  that  the  soul 
lo  immortal  ;  and  put  this  in  rhyme, 

on  the  whole, 
Yery  well,  with  sublime  illustration. 

Man's  heart 
Is  a  mystery,  doubtless.     You  trace 

it  in  art  : — 
The  Greek  Psyche. — that's  beauty, — 

the  perfect  ideal. 
But  then  comes  the  imperfect,  per- 
fectible real. 
With  its  pained  aspiration  and  strife. 

In  those  pale 
Ill-drawn  virgins  of  Giotto  you  see 

it  prevail. 
You  have  studied  all  this.     Then, 

the  universe,  too, 
Is  not  a  mere  house  to  be  lived  in, 

for  you.  [know 

Geology  opens  the  mind.     So  you 
Something  also   of  strata  and  fos- 
sils ;  these  show 
The  bases    of    cosmical  structure : 

some  mention 
Of  the    nebulous    theory    demands 

your  attention  ; 
And  so  on. 

"  In  short,  it  is  clear  the  interior 
Of  your  brain,  my  dear  Alfred,  is 

vastly  superior 
In  fibre,  and  fulness,  and  function, 

and  fire, 
To  that  of  my  poor  parliamentary 

squire  ; 
But  your  life  leaves  upc-n  me  (for- 
give me  this  heat 


Due  to  friendship)  the  sense  of  a 

thing  incomplete. 
You  fly  high.     But  what  is  it,  in 

truth,  you  fly  at  ? 
My  mind  is  not  satisfied  quite  as  to 

that. 
An  old  illustration  's  as  good  as  a 

new. 
Provided    the    old    illustration    be 

true. 
We  are  children.    Mere  kites  are  the 

fancies  we  fly. 
Though  we  marvel  to  see  them  as- 
cending so  high  ; 
Things  slight  in  themselves, — long- 
tailed  toys,  and  no  more. 
What    is    it    that    makes    the    kite 

steadily  soar 
Through  the  realms  where  the  cloud 

and  the  whirlwind  have  birth 
But  the  tie  that  attaches  the  kite  to 

the  earth  ? 
I  remember  the  lessons  of  childhood, 

you  see, 
And  the  hornbook  I  learned  on  my 

poor  mother's  knee. 
In  truth,  I  suspect  little  else  do  we 

learn 
From  this  great  book  of  life,  which 

so  shrewdly  we  turn,, 
Saving  how  to  apply,  with  a  good  or 

bad  grace, 
WTiat  w^e  learned   in  the  hornbook 

of  childhood. 

"  Your  case 
Is  exactly  in  point. 

"Fly  your  kite,  if  you  please, 
Out  of  sight  :  let  it  go  where  it  will, 

on  the  breeze  ; 
But  cut  not  the  one  thread  by  which 

it  is  bound. 
Be  it  never  so  high,  to  this  poor 

human  ground. 
No  man  is  the  absolute  lord  of  his 

life. 
You,  my  friend,  have  a  home,  and  a 

SAveet  and  dear  wife. 
If  I  often  have  sighed  by  my  own 

silent  fire, 
With  a  sense  of  a  sometimes  recur- 
ring detjire 


t06 


LUCILE. 


For  a  voice  sweet  and  low,  or  a  face 
fond  and  fair, 

Some  dull  winter  evening  to  solace 
and  share 

With  the  love  which  the  world  its 
good  children  allows 

To  shake  hands  with, — in  short,  a 
legitimate  spouse. 

This  thought  has  consoled  me  :  "A.t 
least  I  have  given 

For  my  ot^ti  good  behavior  no  host- 
age to  heaven." 

Tou  have,  though.     Forget  it  not ! 
faith,  if  you  do, 

I  would  rather  break  stones  on  a 
road  than  be  you. 

If  any  man  wilfully  injiu*ed,  or  led 

That  little  girl  wrong,  I  would  sit  on 
his  head. 

Even  though  you  yourself  were  the 
sinner  ! 

"  And  this 

Leads  me  back  (do  not  take  it,  dear 
cousin,  amiss  ! ) 

To  the  matter  I  meant  to  have  men- 
tioned at  once, 

But  these  thoughts  put  it  out  of  my 
head  forlhe  nonce. 

Of  all  the  preposterous  hiunbugs  and 
shams,  [lambs, 

Of  all  the  old  wolves  ever  taken  for 

The  wolf  best  received  by  the  flock 
he  devours 

Is  that  uncle-in-law,  my  dear  Alfred, 
of  yours. 

At  least,  this  has  long  been  my  set- 
tled conviction. 

And  I  almost  would  venture  at  once 
the  prediction 

That  before  very  long — but  no  mat- 
ter !  I  trust 

For  his  sake  and  our  own,  that  I 
may  be  unjust. 

But  Heaven  forgive  me,  if  cautious 
I  am  on 

The  score  of  such  men  as,  with  both 
God  and  Mammon, 

Seem  so  shrewdly  familiar. 

''Neglect  not  this  warning. 

There  were  rimiors  afloat  in  the  City 
this  morning 


Which  I  scarce  like  the  sound  of. 

Who  knows  ?  would  he  flofc^ 
At  a  pinch,  the  old  hypocrite,  even 

his  own  niece  ? 
For  the  sake  of  Matilda  I  cannot  im- 
portune 
Your  attention  too  early.     If  all  your 

wife's  fortime 
Is  yet  in  the  hands  of  that  specious 

old  sinner. 
Who  would  dice  with  the  devil,  and 

yet  rise  up  winner, 
I  say,  lose  no  time  !  get  it  out  of  the 

grab 
Of  her  trustee  and  uncle.  Sir  Ridley 

McNab. 
I  trust  those  deposits,  at  least,  are 

drawn  out, 
And    safe    at    this    moment    from 

danger  or  doubt. 
A  wink  is  as  good  as  a  nod  to  the 

wise.  [justifies 

Verbwn  sap.     1  admit  nothing  yet 
My  mistrust  ;  but  I  have  in  my  own 

mind  a  notion 
That  old  Ridley's  white  waistcoat, 

and  airs  of  devotion, 
Have  long  been  the  only  ostensible 

capital 
On  which  he  does  business.     If  so, 

time  must  sap  it  all, 
Sooner  or  later.     Look  sharp.     Do 

not  wait, 
Draw  at  once.    In  a  fortnight  it  may 

be  too  late. 
I  admit  I  know  nothing.     I  can  but 

suspect ; 
I  give  you  my  notions.     Form  yours 

and  reflect. 
My  love  to  Matilda.     Her  mother 

looks  well. 
I  saw  her  last  week.     I  have  noth- 
ing to  tell 
Worth  your  hearing.    We  think  that 

the  Government  here 
Will  not  last  our  next  session.     Fitz 

Fimk  is  a  peer, 
Tou  will  see  by  the  Times.     There 

are  syrnptoms  which  show 
That  the  ministers  now  are  prepar- 
ing to  go, 


LVCJLB. 


lot 


And  finish  their  feast  of  the  loaves 

and  the  fishes. 
It  is  evident  that  they  are  clearing 

the  dishes, 
And  cramming  their  pockets   with 

bon-bons.     Your  news 
Will  he  always  acceptable.     Yere,  of 

the  Blues, 
Has  bolted  with  Lady  Selina.     And 

so. 
You  have  met  with  that  hot-headed 

Frenchman  ?    I  know 
That  the  man  is  a  sad  viauvais  sujet. 

Take  care 
Of  Matilda.     I  wish  I  could  join  you 

both  there  ; 
Sut,  before  I  am  free,  you  are  sure 

to  be  gone. 
Good-by    my  dear  fellow.      Yours, 

anxiously, 

''  John." 


n. 


This  .s  justthe  advice  I  myself  would 

have  given 
To    Lord    Alfred,   had    I  been  his 

cousin,  which.  Heaven 
Be  praised,  I  am  not.     But  it  reached 

him  indeed 
In  an  unlucky  hour,  and  received  lit- 
tle heed. 
A  half-languid  glance  was  the  most 

that  he  lent  at 
That  time  to  these  homilies.     Pri- 

mum  dementat 
Quern  BeuH  vult  perdere.    Alfred  in 

fact 
"Was  behaving  just  then  in  a  way  to 

distract 
Job's  self  had  Job  known  him.     The 

more  you'd  have  thought 
The  Duke's  court  to  Matilda  his  eye 

would  have  caught, 
The  more  did  his  aspect  grow  listless 

to  hers. 
And  the  more  did  it  beam  to  Lucile 

de  Nev'ers. 
And  ilatilda,  the  less  she  found  love 

in  the  look 


Of  her  hnsband,  the  less  did  she 

shrink  from  the  Duke. 
With  each  day  that  passed  o'er  them, 

they  each,  heart  from  heart, 
Woke  to  feel  themselves  further  and 

further  apart. 
More  and  more  of  his  time  Alfred 

passed  at  the  table  ; 
Played  high ;  and  lost  more  than  to 

lose  he  was  able. 
He  grew  feverish,  querulous,  absent, 

perverse, — 
And    here    I    must  mention,   what 

made  matters  worse, 
That  Lucile  and  the  Duke  at  the  self- 
same hotel 
With    the    Vargraves    resided.       It 

needs  not  to  tell 
That  they  all  saw  too  much  of  each 

other.     The  weather 
Was  so  fine  that  it  brought  them 

each  day  all  together 
In  the  garden,  to  listen,  of  course,  to 

the  band. 
The  house  was  a  sort  of  phalanstery ; , 

and 
Lucile  and  Matilda  were  pleased  to 

discover 
A  mutual  passion  for  music.     More- 
over, 
The  Duke  was  an  excellent  tenor  : 

could  sing 
*' Ange  si  pure^^  in  a  way  to  bring 

down  on  the  wing 
All  the  angels  St.  Cicely  played  to. 

My  lord 
Would  also  at  times,  when  he  was 

not  too  bored. 
Play  Beethoven,  and  Wagner's  new 

music,  not  ill ; 
With  some  little  things  of  his  own, 

showing  skill. 
For  which  reason,  as  well  as  for  some 

others  too. 
Their  rooms  were  a  pleasant  enough 

rendezvous. 
Did    Lucile,   then,   encourage    (the 

heartless  coquette  I) 
All  the  mischief  she  could  not  but 

mark? 

Patience  yet  I 


102 


LUC  I  LB. 


m. 

In  that  garden,  an  arbor,  withdrawn 

from  the  snn. 
By  laburnum  and  lilac  with  blooms 

overrun, 
Formed    a    vault  of    cool  verdure, 

which  made,  when  the  heat 
Of  the  noontide  hung  heavy,  a  gra- 
cious retreat. 
And  here,  witli  some  friends  of  their 

own  little  world. 
In  the    warm    afternoons,   till  the 

shadov/s  uncurled 
From  the  feet  of  the  lindens,  and 

crept  through  the  grass, 
Their  blue  hours  would  this  gay  little 

colony  pass. 
The  men  loved  to  smoke,  and  the 

women  to  bring. 
Undeterred  by  tobacco,  their  work 

there,  and  sing 
Or  converse,  till  the  dew  fell,  and 

homeward  the  bee 
Floated,  heavy  with  honey.  Towards 

eve  there  was  tea 
(A  luxury  due  to  Matilda),  and  ice. 

Fruit,    and  coffee.        '^    "Eo-Trepe,   Travra 

Such  an  evening  it  was,  while  Ma- 
tilda presided 

O'er  the  rustic  arrangements  thus 
daily  provided, 

With  the  Duke,  and  a  small  German 
Prince  with  a  thick  head, 

And  an  old  Russian  Countess  both 
witty  and  wicked. 

And  two  Austrian    Colonels, — that 
Alfred,  who  yet 

Was  lounging    alone  with  his  last 
cigarette, 

Saw    Lucile    de  Nevers  by  herself 
pacing  slow 

'Neath  the  shade  of  the  cool  linden- 
trees  to  and  fro, 

And  joining  her,  cried,  "  Thank  the 
good  stars,  we  meet  ! 

I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you  !  " 

''  Yes  ?  .  . .  "  with  her  sweet 

Serene  voice,  she  replied  to  him  — 
"  Yes  ?  and  I  too 


Lucile  I 


Was  wishing,  indeed,  to  say  some- 
what to  you." 

She  was  paler  just  then  than  her 
wont  was.     The  sound 

Of  her  voice  had  withm  it  a  sadness 
profound. 

"  You  are  ill  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

"No  !"  she  hurriedly  said 

"  No  no  !  " 

'  You  alarm  me  !  " 
She  drooped  down  her  head, 

"If    your  thoughts    have    of    latej 
sought,  or  cared,  to  divine 

The  purpose  of  what  has  been  pass 
ing  in  mine. 

My  farewell  can  scarcely  alarm  you." 

Alfred. 
Your  farewell !  you  go  ! 

Lucile. 

Yes,  Lord  Alfred. 

Alfred. 

Reveal 
The  cause  of  this  sudden  unkind- 
ness. 

Lucile. 

Unkind  ? 
Alfred. 
Yes  .  what  else  is  this  parting  ? 
Lucile. 
No,  no  !  are  you  blind  ? 
Look  into  your  own  heart  and  home. 

Can  you  see 
No  reason  for  this,  save  unkindness 

in  me  ? 
Look  into  the  eyes  of  your  wife, — 

those  true  eyes 
Too  pure  and  too  honest  in  aught  to 

disguise 
The     sweet    soul    shining    through 
them. 

Alfred. 
Lucile  !  (first  and  last 
Be  the  word,  if  you  will  !j  let  me 
speak  of  the  past. 


I 


LUCILE. 


103 


I  know  now,  alas  !  though  I  know  it 

too  late, 
What  passed  at  that  meeting  which 

settled  my  fate. 
Nay,  nay,  interrupt  me  not  yet !  let 

it  be  ! 
I  but  say  what  is  due  to  yourself, — 

due  to  me, 
And  must  say  it. 

He  rushed  incoherently  on, 
Describing  how,  lately,  the  truth  he 

had  known, 
To  explam  how,  and  whence,  he  had 

wronged  her  before, 
All  the  complicate  coil  wound  about 

hmi  of  yore. 
All  the  hopes  that  had  flown  with 

the  faith  that  was  fled, 
**  And  then,  O  Lucile,  what  was  left 

me,"  he  said, 
"When  my   life  was  defrauded  of 

you,  but  to  take 
That  life,  as  'twas  left,  and  endeavor 

to  make 
Unobserved    by  another,   the    void 

which  remained 
Unconcealed  to  myself  ?    If  I  have 

not  attained, 
I  have  striven.     One  word  of  un- 

kindness  has  never 
Passed  my  lips  to  Matilda.    Her  least 

wish  has  ever 
Received  my  submission.    And  if,  of 

a  truth, 
I  have  failed  to  renew  what  I  felt  in 

my  youth, 
I  at  least  have  been  loyal  to  what  I 

do  feel, 
Respect,  duty,  honor,  affection.  Lu- 
cile, 
I  speak  not  of  love  now,  nor  love's 

long  regret  : 
I  would  not  offend  you,  nor  dare  I 

forget 
The  ties  tliat  are  round  me.     But 

may  there  not  be 
A  friendship  yet  hallowed  between 

you  and  me  ? 
May  we  not  be  yet  friends, — friends 

the  dearest?" 

"Alas  I" 


She  replied,  "for  one  moment,  per- 
chance, did  it  pass 

Thi'ough  my  own  heart,  that  dream 
which  forever  hath  brought 

To  those  wlio  indulge  it  in  innocent 
thought 

So  fatal  and  evil  a  waking !  But 
no. 

For  in  lives  such  as  ours  are,  the 
Dream-tree  would  grow 

On  the  borders  of  Hades  :  beyond  it, 
what  lies  ? 

The  wheel  of  Ixion,  alas  !  and  the 
cries 

Of  the  lost  and  tormented.  Depart- 
ed, for  us, 

Are  the  days  when  with  innocence 
we  could  discuss 

Dreams  like  these.  Fled,  indeed, 
are  the  dreams  of  vxy  life  1 

0  trust  me,  the  best  friend  you  have 

is  your  wife. 
And  I, — in  that  pure  child's  pure 

virtue,  I  bow 
To  the  beauty  of  virtue.     I  felt  on 

my  brow 
Not  one  blush  when  I  first  took  her 

hand.     With  no  blush 
Shall  I  clasp  it  to-night,  when  I  leave 

you. 

"  Hush  !  hush  I 

1  would  say  what  I  wished  to  have 

said  when  you  came. 
Do  not  think  that  years  lea^e  us  and 

find  us  the  same  ! 
The  woman  you  knew  long  ago,  long 

ago. 
Is    no    more.     You    yourself    have 

within  you,  I  know. 
The  germ  of  a  joy  in  the  years  yet 

to  be. 
Whereby  the  past  years  will  bear 

fruit.     As  for  me, 
I  go  my  own  way, — onward,  upward  ! 
"  O  yet, 
Let  me  thank  you  for  that  which  en- 
nobled regret, 
When  it  came,  as  it  beautified  hope 

ere  it  fled, — 
The  love  I  once  felt  i  i-  you.     True? 

it  is  deadj 


104 


LUCILE. 


But  it  is  not  corrupted.    I  too  have 

at  last 
liived  to  leam  that  love  is  not — 

(such  love  as  is  past, 
Such  love  as  youth  dreams  of   at 

least) — the  sole  part 
Of  life,  which  is  able  to  fill  up  the 

heart ; 
Even  that  of  a  woman. 

"  Between  you  and  me 
Heaven  fixes  a  gulf,  over  which  you 

must  see 
That  our  guardian  angels  can  bear 

us  no  more. 
We  each  of  us  stand  on  an  opposite 

shore. 
Trust  a  woman's  opinion  for  once. 

W^men  learn, 
By  an  instinct  men  never  attain,  to 

discern 
Each  other's  true  natures.     Matilda 

is  fair, 
Matilda  is  young — see  her  now,  sit- 
ting there  ! — 
How  tenderly  fashioned — {O,  is  she 

not  ?  say, ) 
To  love  a^d  be  loved  I " 

IV. 
He  turned  sharply  away, — 
"Matilda  is  young,  and  Matilda  is 

fair  ; 
Of  all  that  you  tell  me  pray  deem  me 

aware  ; 
But  Matilda'Si  a  statue,  Matilda's  a 

child  ; 
Matilda  loves  not — ^" 

Lucile  quietly  smiled 
As  she  answered  him  : — "  Yesterday, 

all  that  you  say 
Might  be  true  ;  it  is  false,  wholly 

false,  though,  to-day." 
"  How  ? — what  mean  you  ?  " 

"I  mean  that  to-day,"  she  re- 
plied, 
"  The  statue  with  hfe  has  become 

vivified  : 
I  mean  that  the  child  to  a  woman 

has  grown  : 
And  that  woman  is  jealous." 

♦'  Whtit !  she  ?  "  with  a  tone 


Of  ironical  wonder,  he  answered — 

*'  what,  she  ! 
She  jealous  ! — Matilda  ! — of  whom, 
pray? — not  me  !" 

"My  lord,  you  deceive  yourself  ;  no 

one  but  you 
Is  she  jealous  of.     Trust  me.     And     | 

thank  Heaven,  too. 
That  so  lately  this  passion  within 

her  hath  grown. 
For  who  shall  declare,  if  for  moijths 

she  had  known 
What  for  days  she  has  known  all  too 

keenl 5 ,  I  fear. 
That   knowledge    perchance    might 

have  cost  you  more  dear  ? '' 
"  Explain  !   explain,   madam  ! "   he 

cried  in  surprise  ; 
And  terror  and  anger  enkindled  his 

eyes. 

"  How  blind  are  you  men  !  "  she  re- 
plied.    "  Can  you  doubt 

That  a  woman,  young,  fair,  and  neg- 
lected—" 

"  Speak  out  I " 

He  gasped  with  emotion.    "  Lucile  ! 
you  mean — what  ? 

Do  you  doubt  her  fidelity  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not. 

Listen  to  me,  my  friend.     What  1 
wish  to  explain 

Is  so  hard  to  shape  forth.     I  could 
almost  refrain 

From  touching  a  subject  so  fragile. 
However,  [endeavor 

Bear  with  me  awhile,  if  I  frankly 

To  invade  for  one  moment  your  in- 
nermost hfe. 

Your  honor,  Lord  Alfred,  and  that 
of  your  wife. 

Are  dear  to  me, — most  dear  1    And 
I  am  convinced 

That  you    rashly  are    risking  that 
honor." 

He  winced. 

And  turned  pale,  as  she  spoke. 

She  had  aimed  at  his  heart, 

And  she  saw,  by  his  sudden  and  t^r- 
rifieci  start, 


LVCJLE. 


105 


TLat  her  aim  had  not  missed. 

"  Stay,  Lucile  ! "  he  exclaimed, 

"What  ill  truth  do  you  mean  by 
these  words,  vaguely  framed 

To     alarm     me  ?      Matilda  ?  —  My 
wife  ? — do  you  know  ?  " — 

"  I  know  that  your  wife  is  as  spot- 
less as  snow. 

But  I  know  not  how  far  your  con- 
tinued neglect 

Her  nature,  as  well  as  her  heart, 
might  affect. 

Till  at  last,  by  degrees,  that  serene 
atmosphere 

Of  her  unconscious  piurity,  faint  and 
yet  clear. 

Like  the  indistinct  golden  and  vapor- 
ous fleece 

Which  surrounded  and  hid  the  celes- 
tials in  Greece 

From  the  glances  of  men,  would  dis- 
perse and  depart 

At  the  sighs  of  a  sick  and  delirious 
heart, — 

For  jealousy  is  to  a  woman,  be  sure, 

A  disease  healed  too  oft  by  a  crimi- 
nal cure  ; 

And  the  heart  left  too  long  to  its 
ravage,  in  time 

May  find  weakness  in  virtue,  reprisal 
in  crime." 


"  Such  thoughts  could  have  never," 
he  faltered,  "  I  know, 

Keached  the  heart  of  Matilda." 

''Matilda?    O  no  ! 

But  reflect  I  wiien  such  thoughts  do 
not  come  of  themselves 

To  the  heart  of  a  woman  neglected, 
like  elves 

That  seek  lonely  places, — there  rare- 
ly is  wanting 

Some  voice  at  her  side,  with  an  evil 
enchanting 

To  conjure  them  to  her." 

"O  lady,  beware  ! 

At  this  moment,  around  me  I  seai'ch 
everywhere 

For  a  clew  to  your  words  " — 

♦'You  mistake  them,"  biie  said. 


Half  fearing,  indeed,  the  efEect  they 

had  made. 
"  I  was  putting  a  mere  hypothetical 

case." 

With  a  long  look  of  trouble  he  gazed 

in  her  face. 
''  Woe  to  him,  .  .  ."he  exclaimed 

.  .  .  ''w^oe  to  him  that  shall  feel 
Such  a  hope  !  for  I  swear,  if  he  did 

but  reveal 
One  glimpse, — it  should  be  the  last 

hope  of  his  life  ! " 
The  clenched  hand   and   bent  eye- 
brow betokened  the  strife 
She  had  roused  in  his  heart. 

'•You  forget,"  she  began, 
"  That  you  menace  yourself.     You 

yourself  are  the  man 
That  is  guilty.     Alas  !  must  it  ever 

be  so  ? 
Do  we  stand  in  our  own  light,  wher- 
ever we  go. 
And  fight  our  own  shadows  forever  ? 

O  think  ! 
The    trial    from    which    you,    the 

stronger  ones,  shrink, 
\y)Vi  ask  woman,  the  weaker  one, 

still  to  endure  ; 
You  bid  her  be  true  to  the  laws  you 

abjure  ; 
To  abide  by  the  ties  you  yoiu-selves 

rend  asunder. 
With  the  force  that  has  failed  you  : 

and  that,  too,  wlien-  under 
The  assumption  of  rights  which  to 

her  you  refuse. 
The    immunity    claimed   for   your- 
selves you  abuse  ! 
Where  the  contract  exists,   it    La- 

volves  obligation 
To  both  husband   and  wife,   hi   an 

equal  relation. 
You  unloose,  in  asserting  your  own 

liberty, 
A    knot,    which,    unloosed,    leaves 

another  as  free, 
Then,  O  Alfred  !  be  juster  at  heart  I 

and  thank  Heaven 
That  Heaven  to  your  wife  euclj  ^ 

^^ture  has  givei) 


iq6 


LUCILE, 


That  you  have  not  wherewith  to  re- 
proach her,  albeit 

YoQ  have  cause  to  reproach  your 
own  self,  could  you  see  it  1 " 


In  the  silence  that  followed  the  last 

word  she  said, 
In  the  heave  of  his  chest,  and  the 

droop  of  his  head. 
Poor  Lucile  marked  her  words  had 

sufficed  to  impart 
A  new  germ  of  motion  and  life  to 

that  heart 
Of  which  he  himself  had  so  recently 

spoken 
As  dead  to  emotion, — exhausted,  or 

broken  ! 
New  fears  would  awaken  new  hopes 

in  his  life. 
In  the  husband  indifferent  no  more 

to  the  wife 
She  already,   as  she  had  foreseen, 

could  discover 
That    Matilda    had    gained,  at  her 

hands,  a  new  lover. 
So  after  some  moments  of  eilence, 

whose  spell 
They  both  felt,  she  extended  hei- 

hand  to  him.  .  .  . 


vn. 


vin. 


Well  ? 


"  Lncile,"   he  repUed,  as  that  soft 

quiet  hand 
In  his  own  he  clasped  warmly,   "  I 

both  understand 
And  obey  you." 

*'  Thank  Heaven  I "  she  murmur- 
ed. 

"  O  yet, 
One  word,  I  beseech  you  !    I  cannot 

forget." 
He  exclaimed,  "we  are  parting  for 

life.     You  have  shown 
My  pathway  to  me  :  but  say,  what 

is  your  own  ?  " 
The  calmness  with  which  until  then 

she  had  spokeu 


In  a  moment  seemed  strangely  and 
suddenly  broken. 

She  turned  from  him  nervously,  hur- 
riedly. 

"  Nay, 

I  know    not,"   she  murmured,    "  I 
follow  the  way 

Heaven  leads  me  ;  I  cannot  foresee 
to  what  end. 

I  know  only  that  far,  far  away  it 
must  tend 

From  all  places  in  which  we  have 
met,  or  might  meet. 

Far  away  ! — onward — upward  !  " 

A  smile  strange  and  sweet 

As  the  incense  that  rises  from  some 
sacred  cup 

And  mixes  with  music,  stole  forth, 
and  breathed  up 

Her  whole  face,  with  those  words. 
"  Wheresoever  it  be, 

May  all  gentlest  angels  attend  you  I " 
sighed  he, 

'*  And  bear  my  heart's  blessing  wher- 
ever you  are  ! " 

And  her  hand,   with    emotion,  he 
kissed. 

IX. 

From  afar 

That  kiss  was,  alas  !  by  Matilda  be- 
held 

With  far  other  emotions  :  her  young 
bosom  swelled. 

And  her  young  cheek  with  anger  was 
crimsoned. 

The  Duke 

Adroitly  attracted  towards   it    her 
look 

By  a  faint  but  significant  smile. 

X. 

Much  ill-con sti-ued, 
Kenovmed  Bishop  Berkeley  has  ful- 
ly, for  one,  strewed 
With  arguments  page  upon  page  to 
teach  folks  [a  hoax. 

That  the  world  they  inhabit  is  only 
But  it  surely  is  hard,  since  we  can't 

do  without  them, 
That  our  senses  should  make  us  so 
oft  wish  to  doubt  them  ! 


LUCJLS. 


107 


CAKTO  KL 


When  first  the  red  savage  called 

Man  strode,  a  king, 
Through  the  wilds  of  creation, — the 

veiy  first  thing 
That  his  naked  intelligence  taught 

him  to  feel 
Was  the  shame  of  himself  ;  and  the 

wish  to  conceal 
Was  the  first  step  in  art.     From  the 

apron  which  Eve 
In  Eden  sat  down  out  of  fig-leaves 

to  weave, 
To  the  furbelowed  flounce  and  the 

broad  crinoline 
Of  my  lady  .  .  .  you  all  know  of 

course  whom  I  mean  .  .  . 
This  art  of  concealment  has  greatly 

increased. 
A  whole  world  lies  cryptic  in  each 

human  breast  ; 
And  that  drama  of  passions  as  old 

as  the  hills, 
Which  the  moral  of  all  men  in  each 

man  fulfils. 
Is  only  revealed  now  and  then  to 

our  eyes 
In  the  newspaper-files  and  the  courts 

of  assize. 


In  the  group  seen  so  lat<ily  in  sun- 
light assembled, 

'Mid  those  walks  over  which  the  la- 
burnum-bough trembled, 

And  the  deep-bosomed  lilac  empara- 
dising 

The  haimts  where  the  blackbird  and 
thrush  flit  and  sing, 

The  keenest  eye  could  but  have  seen, 
and  seen  only, 

A  circle  of  friends,  minded  not  to 
leave  lonely 

The  bird  on  the  bough,  or  the  bee  on 
the  blossom  ; 

Conversing  at  ease  in  the  garden's 
green  bosom. 

Like  those  who,  when  Florence  was 
yet  in  her  glories, 


Cheated  death  and  killed  time  with 

Boccaccian  stories- 
But  at  length  the  long  twilight  more 

deeply  grew  shaded, 
And  the  fair  night  the  rosy  horizon 

invaded. 
And  the  bee  in  the  blossom,  the  bird 

on  the  bough. 
Through  the  shadowy  garden  were 

slumbering  now, 
The  trees  only,  o'er  every  un visited 

walk,  [talk. 

Began  on  a  sudden  to  whisper  and 
And,    as   each   little  sprightly  and 

garrulous  leaf 
Woke  up  with  an  evident  sense  of 

relief, 
They  all  seemed  to  be  saying  .  .  . 

''  Once  more  we're  alone. 
And,  thank  Heaven,  those  tiresome 

people  are  gone  !  " 


Through  the  deep  blue  concave  of 
the  luminous  air, 

Large,  loving,  and  languid,  the  stars 
here  and  there. 

Like  the  eyes  of  shy  passionate  wo- 
men, looked  down 

O'er  the  dim  world  whose  sole  ten- 
der light  was  their  own. 

When  Matilda,  alone,  from  her 
chamber  descended, 

And  entered  the  garden,  unseen, 
unattended. 

Her  forehead  was  aching  and  parch- 
ed, and  her  breast 

By  a  vague  inexpressible  sadness  op- 
pressed ; 

A  sadness  which  led  her,  she  scarcely 
knew  how, 

And  she  scarcely  knew  why  .... 
(save,  indeed,  that  just  now 

The  house,  out  of  which  with  a  gasp 
she  had  fled 

Half-stifled,  seemed  ready  to  sink  on 
her  head)  .  .  . 

Out  into  the  night  air,  the  silence, 
the  bright 

Boundless  starlight,  the  cool  isol^ 
tion  of  night  I 


108 


LUCILE, 


Hex  husband  that  day  had  looked 

once  in  her  face, 
And  pressed  both  her  hands  in  a 

silent  embrace, 
And  reproachfully  noticed  her  re- 
cent dejection 
With  a  smile  of  kind  wonder  and 

tacit  affection. 
He,  of  late  so  indifferent  and  listless  ! 

...  at  last 
Was  he  startled  and  awed  by  the 

change  which  had  passed 
O'er   the  once  radiant  face  of  his 

young  wife  ?    "Wlience  came 
That  long  look  of  soUcitous  fond- 
ness ?  .  .  .  the  same 
Look  and  language  of  qiiiet  affection, 

— the  look 
And  the  language,   alas  !  which  so 

often  she  took 
For  pm-e  love  in  the  simple  repose 

of  its  purity, — 
Her  own  heart  thus  lulled  to  a  fatal 

security  ! 
Ha  1  would  he  deceive  her  again  by 

this  kindness  ? 
Had  fehe  been,  then,  O  fool !  in  her 

innocent  blindness 
The  sport  of  transparent  illusion  ? 

ah,  folly  ! 
And  that  feeling,  so  tranquil,  so  hap- 
py, so  holy, 
She    had    taken,   till  then,   in    the 

heart,  not  alone 
Of  her  husband,  but  also,  indeed,  in 

her  own. 
For  true  love,  nothing  else,  after  all, 

did  it  prove 
But  a  friendship  profanely  familiar  ? 
"  And  love  ?  .  .  . 
What  was  love,  then  ?  .  .  .  not  calm, 

not  secure, — scarcely  kind  ! 
But  in  one,  all  intensest  emotions 

combined  : 
Life  and  death  :  pain  and  rapture." 
Thus  wandering  astray. 
Led  by  doubt,  through  the  darkness 

she  wandered  away. 
All  silently  crossing,  recrossing  the 

night,  [light, 

With   iaiiit,   meteonc,   miraculous 


The  swift-shooting  stars  through  ttie  ^3 

infinite  burned. 
And  into  the  infinite  ever  returned. 
And  silently  o'er  the  obscure  and 

unknown 
In  the  heart  of  Matilda  ^here  darted  \ 

and  shone 
Thoughts,  enkindling  like  meteors - 

the  deeps,  to  expire, 
Leaving    traces    behind     them    of: 

tremulous  fire. 

IV. 

She  entered  that  arbor  of  lilacs,  in 

which 
The  dark  air  with  odors  himg  heavy 

and  rich, 
Like  a  soul  that  grows  faint  with 

desire. 

'Twas  the  place 
In  which  she  so  lately  had  sat,  face 

to  face 
With  her  husband, — and  her,  the 

pale  stranger  detested, 
Whose  presence    her    heart  like  a 

plague  had  infested. 
The  whole  spot  with  evil  remem- 
brance was  haunted. 
Through  the  darkness  there  rose  on 

the  lieart  which  it  daunted 
Each  dreary  detail  of  that  desolate 

day, 
So  full,  and  yet  so  incomplete.     Far 

away 
The  acacias    were    muttering,   like 

mischievous  elves. 
The  whole  story  over  again  to  them- 
selves. 
Each  word, — and  each  word  was  a 

wound  !    By  degrees 
Her  memory  mingled  its  voice  with 

the  trees. 


Like  the  whisper  Eve  heard,  when 

she  paused  by  the  root 
Of  the  sad  tree  of  knowledge,  and 

gazed  on  its  fruit, 
To  the  heart  of  Matilda  the  trees 

seemed  to  hiss 
Wild  instructions,  revealing  man's 

last  rightj  which  j§ 


LUCILB. 


Z09 


The  right  of  reprisals. 

An  imacce  uncertain, 
And  vague,  dimly  shaped  itself  forth 

on  the  cui'taiu 
Of  the    darkness    around  her.      It 

came,  and  it  went  ; 
Through  her  senses  a  faint  sense  of 

peril  it  sent  : 
It  passed  and  repassed  her  ;  it  went 

and  it  came 
Forever  retui'ning;  forever  the  same; 
And  forever  more  clearly  defined  ; 

till  her  eyes 
In  that  outline  obscure  could  at  last 

recognize 
The  man  to  whose  image,  the  more 

and  the  more 
That  her  heart,  now  aroused  from 

its  calm  sleep  of  yore. 
From  her  husband  detached  itself 

slowly,  with  pain. 
Her  thoughts  had  returned,  and  re- 
turned to,  again,  [law, — 
As  though  by  some  secret  indefinite 
The  vigilant  Frenchman,  —  Eugene 

de  Luvois  ! 


VI. 


A 


ht    sound    behind    her.      She 
"  trembled.     By  some 

Night-witchcraft  her  vision   a  fact 
had  become. 

On  a  sudden  she  felt,  without  turn- 
ing to  view. 

That  a  man  was  approaching  behind 
her.     She  knew 

By  the  fluttering  pulse  which  she 
could  not  restrain. 

And  the  quick-beating  heart,   that 
this  man  was  Eugene. 

Her  first  instinct  was  flight  ;  but  she 
felt  her  slight  foot 

As  heavy  as  though  to  the  soil  it  had 
root. 

And  the  Duke's  voice  retained  her, 
Uke  fear  in  a  dream, 
vn. 

"  Ah,  lady  !  in  life  there  are  meet- 
ings which  seem 

J4ke  a  fate.     Dare  I  think  like  a 
sympathy  too? 


Yet  what  else  can  I  bless  for  this 
vision  of  you  ? 

Alone  with  my    thoughts,   on  this 
starlighted  lawn. 

By  an  instinct  resistless,  I  felt  my- 
self drawn 

To  revisit  the  memories  left  in  the 
place 

Where  so  lately  this  evening  I  look- 
ed in  your  face. 

And  I  find, — you,  yourself, — my  own 
dream  ! 

"  Can  there  be 

In  this  world  one  thought  common 
to  you  and  to  me  ? 

If  so,  .  .  .  I,  who  deemed  but  a  mo- 
ment ago 

My  heart  uncompanioned,  save  only 
by  woe. 

Should  indeed  be  more  blessed  than 
I  dare  to  believe — 

Ah,  but  one  word,  but  one  from  your 
lips  to  receive  "... 

Interrupting  him  quickly,  she  mur- 
mured, ••  I  sought. 
Here,  a  moment  of  solitude,  silence, 

and  thought, 
Which  I  needed."  .  .  . 

"  Lives  solitude  only  for  one  ? 
Must  its  charm  by  my  presence  so 

soon  be  undone  ? 
Ah,   cannot  two  share  it  ?      What 

needs  it  for  this  ? — 
The  same  thought  in  both  hearts, — 

be  it  sorrow  or  bliss  ; 
If  my  heart  be  the  reflex  of  yours, 

lady,— you. 
Are  you  not  yet  alone, — even  though 

we  be  two  ?  " 

''For  that,"  .  .  .  said  Matilda,  .  .  . 
"  needs  were,  you  should  read 

What  I  have  in  my  heart."  .  .  . 

"  Think  you,  lady,  indeed, 

You  are  yet  of  that  age  when  a  wo- 
man conceals 

In  her  heart  so  completely  whatever 
she  feels 

From  the  heart  of  the  man  whom  it 
interest^  to  know 


no 


LUCILE. 


And  find  out  what  that  feehng  may 

be  ?    Ah,  not  so, 
Lady  Alfred  !    Forgive  me  that  in  it 

I  look, 
But  I  read  in  your  heart  as  I  read  in 

a  book." 

"Well,  Duke  !  and  what  read  you 
within  it  ?  unless 

It  be,  of  a  truth,  a  profound  weari- 
ness, 

And  some  sadness?" 
"  No  doubt.    To  all  facts  there  are 
laws. 

The  effect  has  its  cause,  and  I  mount 
to  the  cause." 


Matilda  shrank  back  ;  for  she  sud- 
denly found 

That  a  finger  was  pressed  on  the  yet 
bleeding  wound 

She  herself  had  but  that  *ay  per- 
ceived in  her  breast. 

"  You  are  sad," .  .  .  said  the  Duke 

(and  that  finger  yet  pressed 
With  a  cruel  persistence  the  wound 

it  made  bleed) — 
"  You  are  sad,  Lady  Alfred,  because 

the  first  need 
Of  a  young  and  a  beautiful  woman  is 

to  be 
Beloved,  and  to  love.     You  are  sad  ; 

for  you  see 
That   you  are  not  beloved,  as  you 

deemed  that  you  were  : 
You  are  sad  :  for  that  knowledge 

hath  left  you  aware 
That  you  have  not  yet  loved,  though 

you  thought  that  you  had. 
Yes,  yes  !  .  .  .  you  are  sad — because 

knowledge  is  sad  ! " 
He  could  not  have  read  more  pro- 
foundly her  heart. 
"What  gave  you,"  she  cried,  with  a 

terrified  start, 
"  Such  strange  power  ?  "  .  .  . 
"To  read  in  your  thoughts  ? "  he 

exclaimed, 
**  O  lady, — a  love,  deep,  profound,— 

he  it  blamed 


Or  rejected, — a  love,  true,  intense,— 

such,  at  least. 
As  you,  and  you  only,  could  wake  in 

my  breast  !" 

"  Hush,  hush  ! .  .  .  I  beseech  you .  . . 

for  pity  ! "  she  gasped, 
Snatching  hurriedly  from  him  the 

hand  he  had  clasped 
In  her  effort  instinctive  to  fly  from 

the  spot. 

"  For  pity  ?  "...  he  echoed,    "  for 

pity  !  and  what 
Is  the  pity  you  owe  him  ?  his  pity  for 

you  ! 
He,  the  lord  of  a  life,  fresh  as  new- 
fallen  dew  ! 
The  guardian  and  guide  of  a  woman, 

young,  fair. 
And  matchless  !    (whose  happiness 

did  he  not  swear 
To  cherish  through  life  ?)  he  neg- 
lects her — for  whom  ? 
For  a  fairer  than  she  ?    No  !  the  rose 

in  the  bloom 
Of  that  beauty  which,  even  when 

hidden,  can  prevail 
To    keep    sleepless    with    song  the 

aroused  nightingale. 
Is  not  fairer  ;  for  even  in  the  pure 

world  of  flowers 
Her  symbol  is  not,   and  this  poor 

world  of  ours 
Has  no  second  Matilda  I    For  whom? 

Let  that  pass  ! 
'Tis  not  I,  'tis  not  you,  that  can  name 

her,  alas  ! 
And  I  dare  not  question  or  judge  her. 

But  wliy. 
Why  cherish  the  cause  of  your  own 

misery  ? 
Why  think  of  one,  lady,  who  thinks 

not  of  you  ? 
Why  be  bound  by  a  chain  which  him- 
self he  breaks  through  ? 
And   why,  since  you  have    but    to 

stretch  forth  you  hand, 
The  love  which  you  need  and  deserve 

to  command, 
Why  shrink?    Why  repel  it,  ?  " 


LUCTLE. 


11 


"O  hush,  sir!  Ohush!" 
Cried  Matilda,  as  though  her  whole 

heart  were  one  blush. 
**  Cease,   cease,   I  conjure    you,   to 

trouble  my  life  ! 
Is  not  Alfred  your  friend  ?  and  am  I 

not  his  wife  ?  " 

IX. 

"  And  have  I  not,  lady,"  he  an- 
swered, .  .  .  ^'  respected 

ffis  rights  as  a  friend,  till  himself  he 
neglected 

Your  rights  as  a  wife  ?  Do  you  think 
'tis  alone 

For  three  days  I  have  loved  you  ? 
My  love  may  have  grown 

I  admit,  day  by  day,  since  I  first  felt 
your  eyes, 

In  watching  their  tears,  and  in  sound- 
ing your  sighs. 

But,  O  lady  !  I  Toved  you  before  I 
believed 

That  your  eyes  ever  wept,  or  your 
heart  ever  grieved. 

Then  I  deemed  you  were  happy — I 
deemed  you  possessed 

All  the  love  you  deserved, — and  I 
hid  in  my  breast 

My  own  love,  till  this  hour — when  I 
could  not  but  feel 

Tour  grief  gave  me  the  right  my 
own  grief  to  reveal  ! 

I  knew,  years  ago,  of  the  singular 
power 

Which  Lucile  o'er  your  husband  pos- 
sessed.    Till  the  hour 

In  which  he  revealed  it  himself,  did 
I, — say  ! — 

By  a  word,  or  a  look,  such  a  secret 
betray  ? 

Xo  !  no.!  do  me  justice.  I  never 
have  spoken 

Of  this  poor  heart  of  mine,  till  all 
ties  he  had  broken 

Which  boimd  your  heart  to  him. 
And  now— now,  that  his  love 

For  another  hath  left  your  own  heart 
free  to  rove. 

What  is  it,— even  now,— that  I  kneel 
to  implore  you  ? 


Only  this,  Lady  Alfred  ! ...  to  let 

me  adore  you 
Unblamed  :    to  have  confidence  in 

me  :  to  spend 
On  me  not  one  thought,  save  to  think 

me  your  friend. 
Let  me  speak  to  you, — ah,  let  me 

speak  to  you  still  ! 
Hush  to  silence  my  words  in  your 

heart,  if  you  will. 
I  ask  no  response  :  I  ask  only  your 

leave 
To  live  yet  in  your  life,  and  to  grieve 

when  you  grieve  !  " 


"  Leave  me,  leave  me  ! "  .  .  .  she 

gasped,  with  a  voice  thick  and 

low 
From  emotion.     "  For  pity's  sake, 

Duke,  let  me  go  ! 
I  feel  that  to  blame  we  should  both 

of  us  be. 
Did  I  linger." 

"  To  blame  ?  yes,  no  doubt  I "  .  .  . 

answered  he, 
"  If  the  love  of  your  husband,  in 

bringing  you  peace. 
Had  forbidden  you  hope.     But  he 

signs  your  release 
By  the  hand  of  another.     One  mo- 
ment !  but  one  ! 
Who  knows  when,  alas  !  I  may  see 

you  alone 
As  to-night  I  have  seen  you  !    or 

when  we  may  meet 
As  to-night  we  have  met  ?  when,  en- 
tranced at  yoiu-  feet. 
As  in  this  blessed  hour,  I  may  ever 

avow 
The  thoughts  which  are  pining  for 

utterance  now  !" 
''Duke!  Duke!"  .  .  .  she  exclaimed 

..."  for  heaven's  sake  let  me 

go  ! 
It  is  late.     In  the  house  they  will 

miss  me,  1  know. 
We  must  not  be  seen  here  together. 

The  night 
Is  advancing.    I  feel  overwhelmed 

with  affright  I 


in 


IVCTLB, 


It  is  time  to  return  to  my  lord." 

•'To  your  lord?" 

He  repeated,  with  lingering  reproach 
on  the  word, 

"  To  your  lord  ?  do  you  think  he 
awaits  you,  in  truth  ? 

Is  he  anxiously  missing  your  pres- 
ence, forsooth  ? 

Return  to  your  lord  !  .  .  his  restraint 
to  renew  ? 

And  hinder  the  glances  which  are 
not  for  you  ? 

No,  no  ! ...  at  this  moment  his 
looks  seek  the  face 

Of  another  !  another  is  there  in  your 
place  ! 

Another  consoles  him  !  another  re- 
ceives 

The  soft  speech  which  from  silence 
your  absence  relieves  I" 

XI. 

"  You  mistake,  sir  !"  .  .  .  responded 
a  voice,  calm,  severe. 

And  sad,  ..."  You  mistake,  sir  I 
that  other  is  here." 

Eugene  and  Matilda  both  started. 

"Lucile!" 
With  a  half -stifled  scream,  as  she  felt 

herself  reel 
From  the  place  where  she    stood, 
cried  Matilda. 

*'  Ho,  oh  ! 
What!    eaves-dropping,  madam?" 
.  .  .  the  Duke  cried  .  .  .  "And 
so 
Fou  were  listening  ?  " 
"Say,  rather,"  she  said,  "that  I 
heard, 
Without  wishing  to  hear  it,  that  in- 
famous word, — 
Heard — and  therefore  reply." 

"Belle  Comtesse,"  said  the  Duke, 
With  concentrated  wrath  in  the  sav- 
age rebuke, 
Which  betrayed  that  he  felt  himself 

baflled  ..."  you  know 
That  your  place  is  not  here.''- 

"  Duke,"  she  answered  liiin  slow, 
'  My  place  is  wherever  my  duty  is 
clear , 


And  therefore  my  place,  at  this  mo-  • 
ment,  is  here. 

0  lady,  this  morning  my  place  was 

beside 
Your  husband,  because  (as  she  said 
this  she  sighed) 

1  felt  that  from  folly  fast  growing: 

to  crime — 
The  crime  of  self-blindness — Heaven 

yet  spared  me  time 
To  save  for  the  love  of  an  innocent 

wife 
All  that  such  love  deserved  in  the 

heart  and  the  life 
Of  the  man  to  whose  heart  and  whose 

life  you  alone 
Can  with  safety  confide   the  pure 

trust  of  your  own." 

She  turned  to  Matilda,  and  lightly 

laid  on  her 
Her  soft,  quiet  hand  .  .  . 

"'Tis,  Olady,  the  honor 
Which  that  man  has  confided  to  you, 

that,  in  spite 
Of  his  friend,  I  now  trust  I  may  yet 

save  to-night — 
Save  for  both  of  you,  lady  !  for  yours 

I  revere ; 
Due  de  Luvois,  what  say  you  ? — my 

place  is  not  here  ?  " 

xn. 

And,  so  saying,  the  hand  of  Matilda 

she  caught. 
Wound  one  arm  round  her  waist  un- 
resisted, and  sought 
Gently,   softly,   to  draw  her    away 

from  the  spot. 
The  Duke  stood   confounded,   and 

followed  them  not. 
But  not   yet    the    house  had  they 

reached  when  Lucile 
Her  tender  and  delicate  burden  could 

feel 
Sink  and  falter  beside  her.     O,  then 

she  knelt  down. 
Flung  her  arms  round  Matilda,  and 

pressed  to  her  own 
The  poor  bosom  beating  against  her. 


.VCILB. 


J  I? 


The  moon, 
Bright,  breathless,  and  baoyant,  and 

brimful  of  June, 
Floated  up  from  the  hillside,  sloped 

over  the  vale. 
And  poised   herself    loose  in  mid- 
heaven,  with  one  pale, 
Minute,   seintillescent,    and   tremu- 
lous star 
Swinging    under    her    globe   like   a 

"  wizard-lit  car, 
Thus  to  each  of  those  women  reveal- 
ing the  face 
Of  the  other.     Each   bore    on  her 

features  the  trace 
Of  a  vivid  emotion.     A  deep  inward 

shame 
The  cheek  of  Matilda  had   flooded 

with  flame. 
With  her  enthusiastic  emotion,  Lu- 

cile 
Trembled  visibly  yet ;  for  she  could 

not  but  feel 
That  a  heavenly  hand  was  upon  her 

that  night. 
And  it  touched  her  pm-e  brow  to  a 

heavenly  light. 
"  In  the  name  of  your  husband,  dear 

lady,"  she  said  ; 
*'  In  the  name  of  your  mother,  take 

heart !    Lift  your  head, 
For  those  blushes  are  noble.     Alas  ! 

do  not  trust 
To  that  maxim  of  virtue  made  ashes 

and  dust, 
That  the  fault  of  the  husband  can 

cancel  the  wife's. 
Take  heart  !   and  take  refuge  and 

strength  in  your  life's 
Pure    silence. — there,    kneel,   pray, 

and  hope,  weep,  and  wait  ! " 
"Saved,  Lucile  ! "  sobbed  Matilda, 

"  but  saved  to  what  fate  ? 
Tears,  prayers,  yes  !  not  hopes." 

''  Hush  !  "  the  sweet  voice  replied. 
"Fooled  away  by  a  fancy,  again  to 

your  side 
Must  your  husband  return.    Doubt 

not  this.     And  return 
For  the  love  you  can  give,  with  the 

love  that  you  yearn 

8 


To  receive,  lady.  What  was  it  chilled 
you  both  now  ? 

Not  the  absence  of  love,  but  the  ig- 
norance how 

Love  is  nourished  by  love.  Well  I 
henceforth  you  will  prove 

Your  heart  worthy  of  love, — since  it 
knows  how  to  love." 


"What  gives  you  such  power  over 

me,  that  I  feel 
Thus  drawn  to  obey  you  ?  What  are 

you,  Lucile  ?  " 
Sighed  Matilda,  and  lifted  her  eyes 

to  the  face 
Of  Lucile. 
There  passed  suddenly  through  it 

the  trace 
Of  deep  sadness  ;  and  o'er  that  fair 

forehead  came  down 
A  shadow  which  yet  was  too  sweet 

for  a  frown. 
"The  pupil  of  sorrow,  perchance" 

.  .  .  she  replied. 
"  Of   sorrow  ?  "   Matilda  exclaimed 

.  .  .  "O  confide 
To  my  heart  your  affliction.     In  all 

you  made  known 
I  should  find  some  instruction,  no 

doubt,  for  my  own  ! " 

"  And  I  some  consolation,  no  doubt  , 

for  the  tears 
Of  another  have  not  flowed  for  me 

many  years." 

It  was    then   that   Matilda   herself 

seized  the  hand 
Of  Lucile  in  her  own,  and  uplifted 

her  ;  and 
Thus  together  they  entered  the  house 


Twas  the  room 
Of  Matilda. 

The  languid  and  delicate  gloom 
Of  a  lamp  of  pure  white  alabaster, 

aloft 
From  the  ceiling  suspended,  around 
it  slept  soft. 


-M 


riTCTLB. 


The  casement  oped  into  the  garden. 
The  pale 

Cool  moonlight  streamed  through  it. 
One  lone  nightingale 

Sung  aloof  in  the  laurels. 

And  here,  side  by  side, 

nand  in  hand,  the  two  women  sat 
down  undescried. 

Save  by  guardian  angels. 

As,  when,  sparkling  yet 

From  the  rain,  that,  with  drops  that 
are  jewels,  leaves  wet 

The  bright  head  it  humbles,  a  young 
rose  inclines 

To  some  pale  lily  near  it,  the  fair 
vision  shines 

As  one  flower  with  two  faces,  in 
hushed,  tearful  speech. 

Like  the  showery  whispers  of  flow- 
ers, each  to  each 

Linked,  and  leaning  together,  so  lov- 
ing, so  fair, 

So  united,  yet  diverse,  the  two  wo- 
men there 

Looked,   indeed,    like    two    flowers 
upon  one  drooping  stem. 

In  the  soft  light  that  tenderly  rested 
on  them. 

All  that  soul  said  to  soul  in  that 
chamber,  who  knows  ? 

All  that  heart  gained  from  heart  ? 

Leave  the  lily,  the  rose. 

Undisturbed  with  their  secret  within 
them.    For  who 

To  the  heart  of  the  floweret  can  fol- 
low the  dew  ? 

A  night  full  of  stars  !    O'er  the  si- 
lence, unseen, 

The  footsteps  of  sentinel  angels,  be- 
tween 

The  dark  land  and  deep  sky  were 
moving.     You  heard 

Passed  from  earth  up  to  heaven  the 
nappy  watchword 

Which    brightened     the     stars    as 
amongst  them  it  fell 

From  earth's  heart,  which  it  eased 
..."Aliiswelll  all  is  well  J" 


CANTO  IV. 
I. 

Tece  Poets  pour  wine  ;  and,  when 
'tis  new,  all  deciy  it, 

But,  once  let  it  be  old,  every  trifier 
must  try  it. 

And  Polonius,  who  praises  no  wine 
that's  not  Massic, 

Complains  of  my  verse,  that  my  verse 
is  not  classic. 

And  Miss  Tilburina,  who  sings,  and 
not  badly. 

My  earlier  verses,  sighs  "  Common- 
place sadly  !" 

As  for  you,  O  Polonius,  you  vex  me 

but  slightly  ; 
But  you,  Tilburina,  your  eyes  beam 

so  brightly 
In  despite  of  their  languishing  looks, 

on  my  word. 
That  to  see  you  look  cross  I  can 

scarcely  afford. 
Yes  !  the  silliest  woman  that  smiles 

on  a  bard 
Better  far  than  Longinus  himiself 

can  reward 
The  appeal  to  her  feelings  of  which 

she  approves  ; 
And  the  critics  I  most  care  to  please 

are  the  Loves. 

Alas,  friend  !  what  boots  it,  a  stone 
at  his  head 

And  a  brass  on  his  breast, — when  a 
man  is  once  dead  ? 

Ay  I  were  fame  the  sole  guerdon, 
poor  guerdon  were  then 

Theirs  who,  stripping  life  bare,  stand 
forth  models  for  men. 

The  reformer's  ? — a  creed  by  poster- 
ity learnt 

A  century  after  its  author  is  biimt  I 

The  poet's  ? — a  laurel  that  hides  the 
bald  brow 

It  hath  blighted  !  The  painter's  ?— 
ask  Raphael  now 

"WTiich  Madonna's  authentic  I  The 
statesman's  ? — a  name 

For  parties  to  blacken,  or  boys  to  de- 
claim 1 


LUCILE. 


"5 


The  soldier's  ? — three  lines  on  the 

cold  Abbey  pavement  I 
Were  this  all  the  life  of  the  wise  and 

the  brave  meant, 
All  it  ends  in,  thrice  better,  Nesera, 

it  Avere 
Unregarded  to  sport  with  thine  odor- 
ous hair, 
Untroubled  to  lie  at  thy  feet  in  the 

shade 
And  be  loved,  while  the  roses  yet 

bloom  overhead. 
Than  to  sit  by  the  lone  hearth,  and 

think  the  long  thought, 
A  severe,  sad,   blind   schoolmaster, 

envied  for  naught 
Save  the  name  of  John  Milton  !   For 

all  men,  indeed. 
Who  in  some    choice  edition  may 

graciously  read, 
With  fair  illustration,   and  erudite 

note. 
The  song  which  the  poet  in  bitter- 
ness wrote, 
Beat  the  poet,  and  notably  beat  him, 

in  this — 
The  joy  of  the  genius  is  theirs, whilst 

they  miss 
The  gi-ief  of  the  man  :  Tasso's  song, 

— not  his  madness  ! 
Dante's  dreams, — not  his  waking  to 

exile  and  sadness  ! 
Milton's    music,— but  not  Milton's 

blindness  ! .  .  . 

Yet  rise. 
My  Milton,  and  answer,  with  those 

noble  eyes 
Which    the  glory  of    heaven  hath 

blinded  to  earth  ! 
Say — the  life,  in  the  living  it,  savors 

of  worth  : 
That   the    deed,   in    the    doing   it, 

reaches  its  aim  : 
That  the  fact  has  a  value  apart  from 

the  fame  : 
That  a  deeper  delight,  in  the  mere 

labor,  pays 
Scorn  of  lesser  delights,  and  labori- 
ous days  : 
And  Shakespeare,  though  all  ShaJce- 

Bpcare'e  writings  were  lost, 


And  his  genius,  though  never  a  trace 

of  it  crossed 
Posterity's  path,  not  the  less  would 

have  dwelt 
In  the  isle  with  Miranda,  with  Ham 

let  have  felt 
All  that  Hamlet  hath  uttered,  and 

haply  where,  pure 
On  its  death-bed,  wronged  Love  lay, 

have  moaned  with  the  Moor  I 


WTien  Lord  Alfred  that  night  to  the 

salon  returned 
He    found  it  deserted.     The  lamp 

dimly  burned 
As  though  half  out  of  humor  to  find 

itself  there 
Forced  to  light  for  no  purpose  a  room 

that  was  bare. 
He  sat  down  by  the  window  alone. 

Never  yet 
Did  the  heavens  a  lovelier  evening 

beget 
Since  Latona's  bright  childbed  that 

bore  the  new  moon  ! 
The  dark  world  lay  still,  in  a  sort  of 

sweet  swoon, 
Wide  open  to  heaven ;  and  the  stars 

on  the  stream 
Were  trembling  like  eyes  that  are 

loved  on  the  dream 
Of  a  lover  ;  and  all  things  were  glad 

and  at  rest 
Save  the  unquiet  heart  in  his  own 

troubled  breast. 
He  endeavored  to    think, — an  un- 
wonted employment. 
Which  appeared   to  aiford  him  no 

sort  of  enjoyment. 

ni. 

''Withdraw  into  yourself.     But,  if 

peace  you  seek  there  for, 
Your  reception,  beforehand,  be  sure 

to  prepare  for," 
Wrote  the  tutor  of  Nero  ;  who  wrote, 

be  it  said, 
Better  far  than  he  acted, — but  peace 

tpO  the  dead  I 


Tie  ■ 


LUCILE. 


He  bled  for  his  pupil  :  what  more 

could  he  do  ? 
But  Lord  Alfred,  when  into  himself 

he  withdrew, 
Found   all  there  in  disorder.     For 

more  than  an  hour 
lie  sat  with  his  head  drooped  like 

some  stubborn  flower 
Beaten  down  by  the  nish  of  the  rain, 

— with  such  force 
Did  the  thick,  gushing  thoughts  hold 

upon  him  the  course 
Of  their  sudden  descent,  rapid,  rush- 
ing, and  dim. 
From  the  cloud  that  had  darkened 

the  evening  for  him. 
At  one  moment  he  rose, — rose  and 

opened  the  door, 
And  wistfully  looked  down  the  dark 

corridor 
Toward  the  room  of  Matilda.    Anon, 

with  a  sigh  [quietly 

Of  an  incomplete  purpose,  he  crept 
Back  again  to  his  place  in  a  sort  of 

submission 
To  doubt,  and  returned  to  his  former 

position, — 
That  loose  fall  of  the  arms,  that  dull 

droop  of  the  face, 
And  the  eye  vaguely  fixed  on  impal- 
pable space. 
The  dream,  which  till  then  had  been 

lulling  his  life. 
As  once  Circe  the  winds,  had  sealed 

thought  ;  and  his  wife 
And  his  home  for  a  time  he  had 

quite,  like  Ulysses, 
Forgotten  ;  but  now  o'er  the  troubled 

abysses  [forth  leapt 

Of  the  spirit  within  him,   seolian. 
To  their  freedom  new-found,  and  re- 

sistlessly  swept 
All    his    heart     into     tumult,    the 

thoughts  which  had  been 
Long  pent  up  in  their  mystic  recesses 

unseen. 

IV. 

How  long  he  thus  sat  there,  hims&lf 

he  knew  not, 
Till  he  started,  as  though  he  were 

suddenly  shot, 


To  the  sound  of  a  voice  too  familiar 
to  doubt, 

Which  was  making  some  noise  in  the 
passage  without. 

A  sound  English  voice,  with  a  round 
English  accent. 

Which  the  scared  German  echoes  re- 
sentfully back  sent ; 

The  complaint  of  a  much  disappoint- 
ed cab-driver 

Mingled  with  it,  demanding  some 
ultimate  stiver  : 

Then,  the  heavy  and  hiuried  ap- 
proach of  a  boot 

Which  revealed  by  its  sound  no  di- 
minutive foot  : 

And  the  door  was  flung  suddenly 
open,  and  on 

The  threshold  Lord  Alfred  by  bach- 
elor John 

Was  seized  in  that  sort  of  affection- 
ate rage  or 

Frenzy  of  hugs  which  some  stout 
Ursa  Major 

On  some  lean  Ursa  Minor  would 
doubtless  bestow 

With  a  warmth  for  which  only  star- 
vation and  snow 

Could  render  one  grateful.  As  soon 
as  he  could. 

Lord  Alfred  contrived  to  escape,  nor 
be  food 

Any  more  for  those  somewhat  vora- 
cious embraces. 

Then  the  two  men  sat  down  and 
scanned  each  other's  faces  ; 

And  Alfred  could  see  that  his  cousin 
was  taken 

With  unwonted  emotion.  The  Land 
that  had  shaken 

His  own  trembled  somewhat.  In 
truth  he  descried, 

At  a  glance,  something  wrong. 

V. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  he  cried. 
"  What  have  you  to  tell  me  ?  " 

John. 

What  !  have  vou  not  heard? 


Alfred. 


Heard  what  ? 


t 


■LUCILE. 


John. 

Tills  sad  business — 
Alfeed. 

I  ?  no,  not  a  word. 
John. 
You  received  my  last  letter  ? 
Alfred. 

I  think  so.     If  not, 
What  then  ? 

John. 
You  have  acted  upon  it  ? 
Alfred. 

On  what  ? 

John. 
The  advice  that  I  gave  you— 

Alfred. 

Advice  ? — let  me  see  ! 
You  alioai/s  are  giving  advice,  Jack, 

to  me. 
About  Parliament  was  it  ? 

John. 
Hang  Parliament  !  no, 
The  Bank,  the  Bank,  Alfred  ! 

Alfred. 

What  Bank  ? 

John. 

Heavens  1    I  know 

You  are  careless  ; — but  surely  you 

have  not  forgotten, — 
Or  neglected  ...  I  warned  you  the 

whole  thing  v/as  rotten. 
You  have  drawn  those  deposits   at 
least  ? 

Alfred. 

No,  I  meant 
To  have  written  to-day  ;   but    the 

note  shall  be  sent 
To-morrow,  however. 

John. 
To-morrow  ?  too  late  ! 
Too  late  !    O,  what  devil  bewitched 
you  to  wait  ? 


Alfred. 
Mercy  save  us  I   you  don't  mean  to 
say  .  .  . 

John. 

Yes,  I  do. 
Alfred. 
What !  Sir  Ridley  ?  .  .  . 
John. 
Smashed,  broken,blown  up,bolted, 
too  ! 

Alfred. 
But  his  own  niece  ?  ...  In  heav- 
en's name.  Jack  .  .  . 

John. 

O,  I  told  you 
The     old     hypocritical     scoimdrel 
would  .  •  . 

Alfred. 

Hold  !  you 
Sureiy  can't  mean  we  are  ruined  ? 

John. 

Sit  down  \ 

A  fortnight  ago  a  report  about  towD 

Made  me  most  apprehensive.    Alas, 
and  alas  ! 

I  at  once  wrote  and  warned  you. 
Well,  now  let  that  pass. 

A  run  on  the  Bank  about  five  days 
ago 

Confii-med  my  forebodings  too  terri- 
bly, though 

I  drove  down  to  the  city  at  once  : 
found  the  door 

Of  the  Bank  close  :   the  Bank  had 
stopped  payment  at  four. 

Next  morning  the  f  ailm-e  v/as  known 
to  be  fraud  : 

Warrant  out  for  MacNab  ;  but  Mac- 
Nab  was  abroad  : 

Gone — we  cannot  tell  where.     I  en- 
deavored to  get 

Information  :  have  learned  nothing 
certain  as  yet, — 

Not  even  the  way  that  old  Bidley 
was  gone  : 

Or  with  those  securities  what  he  had 
done  : 


n8 


LUCILE. 


Or  whether  they  had  been  already 

called  out : 
K  they  are  not,  their  fate  is,  I  fear, 

past  a  doubt. 
Twenty  families  ruined,  they  say  : 

what  was  left, — 
Unable  to  find  any  clew  to  the  cleft 
The  old  fox  ran  to  earth  in, — but 

join  you  as  fast 
As  I  could,  my  dear  Alfred  ?  * 

VI. 

He  stopped  here,  aghast 
At  the  change  in  his  cousin,  the  hue 

of  whose  face 
Had  grown  livid  ;    and  glassy  his 

eyes  fixed  on  space. 
*'  Courage,   courage  ! "    .    .    .    said 

John, ..."  bear  the  blow  like 

a  man  ! " 
And  he  caught  the  cold  hand  of 

Lord  Alfred.     There  ran 
Through  that  hand  a  quick  tremor. 

*'  I  bear  it,"  he  said, 
**  But  Matilda  ?  the  blow  is  to  her  ! " 

And  his  head 
Seemed  forced  down,  as  he  said  it. 

John. 

Matilda  ?    Pooh,  pooh  ! 

I  half  think  I  know  the  girl  better 
than  you. 

She  has  courage  enough — and  to 
spare.     She  cares  less 

Than  most  women  for  luxury,  non- 
sense, and  dress. 

Alfred. 
The  fault  has  been  mine. 


«  These  events,  it  is  needless  to  say,  Mr. 
Morse, 

Took  place  when  Bad  News  as  yet 
travelled  bj'  horse. 

Ere  the  world,  like  a  cockchafer,  buzzed 
on  a  wire, 

Or  Time  was  calcined  by  electrical  fire  ; 

Ere  a  cable  went  under  the  hoary  Atlan- 
tic, 

Or  the  word  Telegram  drove  gramma- 
rians frantic. 


JOHIT.  ' 

Be  it  yours  to  repair  it ;  i 
If  you  did  not  avert,  you  may  help  ' 
her  to  bear  it. 

Alfred.  ' 

I  might  have  averted.  i 

John.  > 

Perhaps  so.     But  now    | 
There  is  clearly  no  use  in  consider-    j 

ing  how. 
Or  whence,  came  the  mischief.    Tho 

mischief  is  here. 
Broken  shins  are  not  mended  by  ciy-    | 

ing, — that's  clear  !  ' 

One  has  but  to  rub  them,  and  get  up    1 

again, 
And  push  on, — and  not  think  too    i 

much  of  the  pain. 
And  at  least  it  is  much  that  you  see    ^ 

that  to  her  | 

You  owe  too  much  to  think  of  your-    ! 

self.     You  must  stir  | 

And  arou.se  yourself,  Alfred,  for  her 

sake.     Who  knows  ?  , 

Something  yet  may  be  saved  from 

this  wreck.     I  suppose 
We  shall  make  him  disgorge  all  he 

can,  at  the  least. 

"  O  Jack,  I  have  been  a  brute  idiot  \ 

a  beast  ! 
A  fool  !    I  have  sinned,  and  to  her 

I  have  sinned  ! 
I  have  been  heedless,   blind,  inex-    ; 

cusably  blind  !  i 

And    now,   in    a   flash,    I    see    all 

things  I" 

As  though 
To  shut  out  the  vision,  he  bowed  his 

head  low 
On  his  hands  ;  and  the  great  tears   , 

in  silence  rolled  on,  W 

And  fell  momently,  heavily,  one  af-"i 

ter  one. 
John  felt  no  desire  to  find  instant 

relief 
For  the  trouble  he  witnessed.  i 

He  guessed,  in  the  grief 
Of  his  cousin,  tlie  broken  and  iieaitr- 

felt  admission 


I 


LUC2LE. 


119 


Of  5ome  error  demanding  a  heartfelt 

contrition  : 
Some  oblivion  perchance  which  could 

plead  Jess  excuse 
To  the  heart  of  a  man  re-aroused  to 

the  use 
Of  the  conscience   God  gave  him, 

than  simply  and  merely 
The  neglect  for  which  now  he  was 

paying  so  dearly. 
So  he  rose  without  speaking,  and 

paced  up  and  down 
The  long  room,  much  afflicted,  in- 
deed, in  his  own 
Cordial  heart  for  Matilda. 

Tlius,  silently  lost 
In  his  anxious  reflections,  he  crossed 

and  recrossed 
The  place  where  his  cousin  yet  hope- 
lessly himg 
O'er  the  table;  his  fingers  entwisted 

among 
The  rich  cm-Is  they  were  knotting 

and  dragging  :  and  there, 
That  sound  of  all  soxmds  the  most 

painful  to  hear, 
The  sobs  of  a  man  I    Yet  so  far  in 

his  own 
Kindly  thoughts  was  he  plunged,  he 

already  had  grown 
Unconscious  of  Alfred. 

And  so  for  a  space 
There  was  silence  between  them. 

vn. 
At  last,  with  sad  face 

He  stopped  short,  and  bent  on  his 
cousin  awhile 

A  pained  sort  of  wistful,  compassion- 
ate smile. 

Approached  him, — stood  o'er  him,— 
and  suddenly  laid 

One  hand  on  his  shoulder — 

''  Where  is  she  ?  "  he  said. 

Alfred  lifted  his  face  all  disfigured 
with  tears 

And  gazed  vacantly  at  him,  like  one 
that  appears 

In  some  foreign  language  to  hear 
himself  greeted, 

Unable  to  answer. 


"  Where  is  she  ?  *'  repealed 

His  cousin. 
He  motioned  his  hand  to  the  door; 

"There,  I  think,"  he  replied.     Cou- 
sin John  said  no  more, 

And  appeared  to  relapse  to  his  own 
cogitations. 

Of  which  not  a  gesture  vouchsafed 
indications. 

So  again  there  was  silence. 

A  timepiece  at  last 

Struck  the  twelve  strokes  of  mid- 
night. 

Roused  by  them,  he  cast 

A  half-look  to  the  dial;  then  quietly 
threw 

His  arm  round  the  neck  of  his  cousin, 
and  drew 

The  hands  down  from  his  face. 

"  It  is  time  she  should  know 

What  has  happened,"  he  said,  .  .  . 
"  let  us  go  to  her  now." 

Alfred  started  at  once  to  his  feet. 

Drawn  and  wan 

Though  his  face,   he  looked  more 
than  his  wont  was — a  man. 

Strong  for  once,  in  his  weakness. 
Uplifted,  filled  through 

With  a  manly  resolve. 

If  that  axiom  be  true 

Of  the  "  8um  quia  cogito,''  I  must 
opine 

That  ^^  id  sum  quod  cogito": — that 
which,  in  fine, 

A  man  thinks  and  feels,  with  his 
whole  force  of  thought 

And  feeling,  the  man  is  himself. 

He  had  fought 

With  himself,  and  rose  up  from  his 
self-overthrow 

The  survivor  of  much  which  that 
strife  had  laid  low. 

At  his  feet,  as  he  rose  at  the  name 
of  his  wife,  i  life 

Lay  in  ruins  the  brilliant  unrealized 

Which,  though  yet  unfulfilled,  seem- 
ed tilll,hen,  in  that  name. 

To  be  his,  had  he  claimed  it.     The 
man's  dream  of  fame 

And  of  power  fell  shattered  before 
him  ;  and  only 


I20 


LUCJLE. 


TTiere  rested  the  heart  of  the  woman, 
so  lonely 

In   all  save  the  love  he  could  ^ve 
her.     The  lord 

Of  that  heart  he  arose.     Blush  not, 
Muse,  to  record 

That  his  first  thought,  and  last,  at 
that  moment  was  not 

Of  the  power  and  fame  that  seemed 
lost  to  his  lot, 

But.  the  love  that  was  left  to  it  ;  not 
of  the  pelf 

He  had  cared  for,  yet  squandered  ; 
and  not  of  himself. 

But  of  her  ;  as  he  murmiu-ed, 

"  One  moment,  dear  Jack  ! 

We  have  grown  up  from  boyhood  to- 
gether.    Our  track 

Has  been  through  the  same  meadows 
in  childh'ood  :  in  youth 

Through  the  same  silent  gateways, 
to  manhood.     In  truth. 

There  is  none  that  can  know  me  as 
you  do  ;  and  none 

To  whom  I  more  wish  to  believe  my- 
self known. 

Speak  the  truth  ;  you  are  not  wont 
to  mince  it,  I  know. 

Nor  I,   shall  I  shirk  it,   or  shrink 
from  it  now.  [spite 

In  despite  of  a  wanton  behavior,  in 

Of  vanity,   folly,   and  pride,   Jack, 
which  might 

Have  turned  from  me  many  a  heart 
strong  and  true 

As  yom*  own,  I  have  never  turned 
roimd  and  missed  YOU 

From  my  side  in  one  hour  of  afflic- 
tion or  doubt 

By  my  own  blind  and  heedless  self- 
will  brought  about. 

Tell  me  truth.     Do  I  owe  this  alone 
to  the  sake 

Of  those  old  recollections  of  boyhood 
that  make 

in  your  heart  yet  some  clinging  and 
crying  appeal 

From  a  judgment  more  harsh,  which 
I  cannot  but  feel 

Might  have  sentenced  our  frIeDdship 
to  death  long  ago  ? 


Or  IS  it . . .  (I  would  1  could  deem  it 

were  so  !) 

That,  not  all  overlaid  by  a  listless 
exterior. 

Your  heart  has  divined  in  me  some- 
thing superior 

To  that  which  I  seem  ;  from  my  in- 
nermost natm-e 

Not  wholly  expelled  by  the  world's 
usm-patm-e  ? 

Some  instinct  of  earnestness,  truth, 
or  desire 

For  tnith  ?  Some  one  spark  of  the 
soul's  native  fire 

Moving  imder  the  ashes,and  cinders, 
and  dust 

Which  life  hath  heaped  o'er  it  ? 
Some  one  fact  to  trust 

And  to  hope  iu  ?  Or  by  you  alone 
am  I  deemed 

The  mere  frivolous  fool  I  so  often 
have  seemed 

To  my  own  self  ?  " 

JOHZi. 

No,  Alfred  '  yoa  will,  I  believe, 
Be  tnie,  at  the  last,  to  what  now 

makes  you  grieve 
For  having  belied  your  true  nature 

so  long. 
Necessity  is  a  stern  teacher.      Be 

strong  ! 

"  Do  you  think,'*  he  resumed  .  .  . 

"  what  I  feel  while  I  speak 
Is  no  more  than  a  transient  emotion, 

as  weak 
As  these  weak  tears  would  seem  to 

betoken  it?" 

John. 
No  I 
Alfked. 
Thank  you,  cousin  !  your  hand  then. 

And  now  I  will  go 
Alone,  Jack.    Tmst  to  me. 

vni. 
John. 
I  do.    But  'tis  late. 
If  she  sleeps,  you'll  not  wake  her. 


LUCILE. 


121 


Alfrid. 


No,  no  !  it  will  wait 
(Poor  infant !)  too  surely,  this  mis- 
sion of  sorrow  ; 
If  she  sleeps,  I  will  not  mar  her 

dreams  of  to-morrow. 
He  opened  the  door,  and  passed  out. 
Cousin  John 
Watched  him  wistful,  and  left  him 
to  seek  her  alone. 


His  heart  beat  so    loud  when    he 

knocked  at  her  door, 
He  could  hear  no  reply  from  within. 

Yet  once  more 
He    knocked    lightly.    No   answer. 

The  handfe  he  tried : 
The  door  opened  :  he  entered  the 

room  undeseried. 


No  brighter  than  is  that  dim  circlet 

of  light 
Which  enhaloes  the  moon  when  rains 

form  on  the  night, 
The  pale  lamp  and  indistinct  radi- 
ance shed 
Round  the  chamber,  in  which  at  her 

pure  snowy  bed 
Matilda  was  kneeling  ;  so  wi'apt  in 

deep  prayer 
That  she  knew  not    her    husband 

stood  watching  her  there. 
With  the  lamplight  tlie  moonlight 

had  mingled  a  faint 
And    uneaj-thly    effulgence    which 

seemed  to  acquaint 
The  whole  place  with  a  sense  of  deep 

peace  made  secure 
By  the  presence  of  something  an- 
gelic and  pure. 
And  not  purer  some    angel    Grief 

carves  o'er  tlie  tomb 
Where  Love  lies,  than  the  lady  that 

kneeled  in  that  gloom. 
She  had  put  off  her  dress  ;  and  she 

looked  to  his  eyes 
Like  a  young  soul  escaped  from  its 

earthly  disguise  ; 


Her  fair  neck  and  innocent  shoulders 

were  bare, 

And  over  theui  rippled  her  soft  gol- 
den hair  ; 

Her  simple  and  slender  white  bodice 
imlaced 

Confined  not  one  curve  of  her  deli- 
cate waist. 

As  the  light  that,  from  water  reflect- 
ed, forever 

Trembles  up  through  the  tremulous 
reeds  of  a  river. 

So  the  beam  of  her  beauty  went 
trembling  in  him. 

Through  the  thoughts  it  suffused 
with  a  sense  soft  and  dim. 

Reproducing  itself  in  the  broken  and 
bright  [tions. 

Lapse  and  pulse  of  a  million  emo- 
That  sight 

Bowed  his  heart,  bowed  his  knee. 
Knowing  scarce  what  he  did, 

To  her  side  through  the  chamber  he 
silently  slid, 

And  knelt  down  beside  her, — and 
prayed  at  her  side. 


Upstarting,   she  then  for  the  first 

time  descried 
That  her  husband  was  near  her  ; 

suffused  with  the  blush 
Which    came    o'er    her  soft  pallid 

cheek  with  a  gush 
Where  the  tears  sparkled  yet. 

As  a  yoimg  fawn  uncouches, 
Shy  with  fear,  from  the  fern  where 

some  hunter  approaches, 
She  shrank  back  ;  he  caught  her, 

and  circling  his  arm 
Round    her    waist,    on    her    brow 

pressed    one    kiss    long    and 

warm. 
Then  her  fear  changed  in  impulse  ; 

and  hiding  her  face 
On  his  breast,  she  hung  locked  in  a 

clinging  embrace 
With  her  soft  arms  wound  heavily 

round  liim,  as  though 
She  feared,  if  their  clasp  were  re- 
laxed, he  would  go  : 


I.2i 


LUCILE. 


Her  smooth  naked  shoulders,  un- 

cared  for,  convulsed 
By  sob  after  sob,  while  her  bosom 

yet  pulsed 
In  its  pressm-e  on  his,  as  the  effort 

within  it 
Lived    and  died  with  each  tender 

tumultuous  minute. 
"  O  Alfred,  O  Alfred  !  forgive  me," 

slie  cried, — ' 
''  Forgive  me  !" 
**  Forgive  you,  my  poor  child!" 

he  siglied  ; 
*'  But  I  never  have  blamed  you  for 

aught  that  I  know, 
And  I  have  not  one  thought  that  re- 
proaches you  now." 
From  her  arms  he  unwound  himself 

gently.     And  so 
lie  forced  her  down  softly  beside 

him.     Below 
The  canopy  shading    their    couch, 

they  sat  down. 
And  he  said,   clasping    firmly    her 

hand  in  his  own, 
"  When  a  proud  man,  Matilda,  has 

found  out  at  length. 
That  he  is  but  a  child  in  the  midst 

of  his  strength. 
But  a  fool  in  his  wisdom,  to  whom 

can  he  own 
The  weakness  which  thus  to  himself 

hath  been  shown  ? 
From  whom  seek  the  strength  which 

his  need  of  is  sore. 
Although    in    his    pride    he    might 

perish,  before 
He  could  plead  for  the  one,  or  the 

other  avow 
'Mid  his  intimate  friends  ?    Wife  of 

mine,  tell  me  now. 
Do  you  join  me  in  feeling,  in  that 

darkened  hour. 
The  sole  friend  that  can  have  the 

right  or  the  power 
To  be  at  his  side,  is  the  woman  that 

shares 
His  fate,  if  he  falter  ;  the   woman 

that  bears 
The  name  dear  for  h'ir  sake,  and 

hallows  the  life 


She  has  mingled  her  own  with, — \ti 

short,  tliat  man's  wife  !" 
"Tes,"    murmured    Matilda,     "O 

yes  !  " 

*'  Then,"  he  cried, 
*'  This  chamber  in  which  we  two  sit, 

side  by  side 
(And  his  arm,  as  he  spoke,  seemed 

more  softly  to  press  her), 
Is  now  a  confessional, — you  my  con- 
fessor ! " 
"I  ?"  sbe  faltered,  and  timidly  lift- 
ed her  head. 
*'  Yes  !  but  first  answer  one  other 

question,"  he  said  : 
"  WTien  a  woman  once  feels  that  she 

is  not  alone  ; 
That  the  heart  of  another  is  warmed 

by  her  own  ; 
That  another  feels  with  her  what- 
ever she  feel. 
And  halves  her  existence  in  woe  or 

in  weal  ; 
That  a  man  for  her  sake  will,  so  long 

as  he  lives, 
Live  to  put  forth  his  strength  which 

the  thought  of  her  gives  ; 
Live  to  shield  her  from  want,  and  to 

share  with  her  sorrow  ; 
Live  to  solace  the  day,  and  provide 

for  the  morrow  ; 
Will    that    woman    feel    less    than 

another,  O  say, 
The  loss  of  what  liie,  sparing  this, 

takes  away  ? 
Will  she  feel   (feeling  this),  when 

calamities  come, 
That  they  brighten  tlie  heart,  though 

they  darken  the  home  ?" 
She  turned,  like  a  soft  rainy  heaven, 

on  him 
Eyes  that  smiled  through  fresh  tears, 

trustful,  tender,  and  dim. 
'■'■  That    woman,"    she    murmured, 

**  indeed  were  thrice  blest  !" 
"  Then  courage,   true  wife  of    my 

heart  !"  to  his  breast 
As    he    folded    and    gathered    her 

closely,  he  cried. 
''  For  the  refuge,  to-night  in  these 

arms  opened  wide 


LUCILE. 


123 


To  your  heart,  can  be  never  closed  to 

it  again, 
And  this  room  is  for  both  an  asylum ! 

For  when 
I  passed  through  that  door,  at  the 

door  I  left  there  [bear. 

A  calamity,  suddeTi,  and  heavy  to 
One  step  from  that  threshold,  and 

daily,  I  fear, 
We  must  face  it  henceforth  ;  but  it 

enters  not  here. 
For    that    door    shuts   it    out,   and 

admits  here  alone 
A  heart  -which  calamity  leaves  all 

your  own  I " 
She  started  .  .  .  "Calamity,  Alfred  ! 

to  you?" 
"To  both,  my  poor  child,  but  'twill 

bring  with  it  too 
The  courage,  I  trust,  to  subdue  it." 
*'  O  speak  ! 
Speak  !  "  she  faltered  in  tones  tunid, 

anxious,  and  weak. 
"  O  yet  for  a  moment,"  he  said, 

"hear  me  on  !" 
Matilda,  this  morn  we  went  forth  in 

tlie  sun. 
Like  those  children  of  sunshine,  the 

bright  summer  flies, 
That  sport  in  the  sunbeam,  and  play 

through  the  skies 
While  the  skies  smile,  and  heed  not 

each  other  :  at  last. 
When  their  sunbeam  is  gone,   and 

their  sky  overcast, 
Who  recks  in  what  ruin  they  fold 

their  wet.  wings  ? 
So  indeed  the  morn  found  us, — -poor 

frivolous  things  ! 
Now  our  sky  is  o'ercast,  and  our  sun- 
beam is  set. 
And  the  night  brings  its  darkness 

around  us.     O,  yet. 
Have  we  weathered  no  storm  through 

those  twelve  cloudless  houi's  ? 
Yes  ;  you,  too,  have  wept  ! 

"  While  the  world  was  yet  ours, 
Wliile  its  sun  was  upon  us,  its  in- 
cense streamed  to  us, 
And  its  myriad  voices  of  joy  seemed 

to  woo  us, 


We  strayed  from  each  other,  too  far, 

it  may  be,  [1  see, 

Nor,  wantonly  wandering,  then  did 
How  deep  was  my  iieed  of    thee, 

dearest,  how  great 
Was  thy  claim  on  my  heart  and  thy 

share  in  my  fate  ! 
But,  Matilda,  an  angel  was  near  us, 

meanwhile, 
Watching  o'er  us,  to  warn,  and   to 

rescue  ! 

"  That  smile 
Which  you  saw  with  suspicion,  that 

presence  you  eyed 
With  resentment,   an    angel's  they 

were  at  your  side 
And  at  mine  ;  nor  perchance  is  the 

day  all  so  far. 
When  w^e  both  in  our  prayers,  when 

most  heartfelt  they  are. 
May  murmur  the  name  of  that  wo- 
man now  gone 
From  our  sight  evermore. 

"Here,  this  evening,  alone, 
I  seek  your  forgiveness,  in  opening 

my  heart 
Unto  yours, — from  this  clasp  be  it 

never  to  part ! 
Matilda,  the  fortune  you  brought  me 

is  gone. 
But  a  prize  richer  far  than  that  for- 
tune has  won 
It  is  yours  to  confer,  and  I  kneel  for 

that  prize, 
'Tis  the  heart  of  my  wife  I "      With 

suffused  happy  eyes 
She  sprang  from  her  seat,  flung  her 

arms  wide  apart. 
And  tenderly  closing   them  round 

him,  his  heart 
Clasped  in  one  close  embrace  to  ^ler 

bosom  ;  and  there 
Drooped  her  head  on  his  shoulder  ; 

and  sobbed. 

Not  despair, 
Not  sorrow,  not  even  the  sense  of 

her  loss, 
Flowed  in  those  happy  tears,  so  ob- 
livious she  was 
Of  all  save  the  sense  of  her  own 

love  I    Anon, 


124 


LUCJLE. 


However,  his  words  rushed  back  to 

her.     "All  gone, 
The  fortune  you  brought  me  I " 

And  eyes  that  were  dim 
With  soft  tears  she  upraised  :  but 

those  tears  were  for  him. 
"Gone  !  my  husband?"   she  said, 

"tell  me  all  1  see  \  I  need, 
To  sober  this  rapture,  so  selfish  in- 
deed, 
Fuller  sense  of  aflaiction." 

"  Poor  innocent  child  I " 
He    kissed  her  fair  forehead,   and 

mournfully  smiled, 
As  he  told  her  the  tale  he  had  heard, 

— something  more 
The  gain  found  in  loss  of  what  gain 

lost  of  yore. 
"  Rest,  my  heart,  and  my  brain,  and 

my  right  hand  for  you ; 
And  with  these,  my  Matilda,  what 

may  I  not  do  ? 
You  know  not,  I  knew  not  myself 

till  this  hour. 
Which  so  sternly  revealed  it,    my 

nature's  full  power." 
"  And  I  too,"  she  murmured,  "  I  too 

am  no  more 
The  mere  infant  at  heart  you  have 

known  me  before. 
I  have  suffered  since  then.     I  have 

learned  much  in  life. 
O  take,  with  the  faith  I  have  pledged 

as  a  wife,  [to  feel  ! 

The  heart  I  have  learned  as  a  woman 
For  I — love  you,  my  husband  !  " 

As  though  to  conceal 
Less  from  him,  than  lierself,  what 

that  motion  expressed, 
She  dropped  her  bright  head,  and  hid 

all  on  his  breast. 
"  O  lovely  as   woman,   beloved    as 

wife  ! 
Evening  star  of  my  heart,  light  for- 
ever my  life  ! 
If  from  eyes  fixed  too  long  on  this 

base  earth  thus  far 
You  have  missed  your  due  homage, 

dear  guardian  star. 
Believe    that,  uplifting  those  eyes 

unto  heaven, 


There  I  see  you,  and  know  you,  and 

bless  the  light  given 

To  lead  me  to  life's  late  achieve- 
ment ;  my  own,  a  i 

My  blessing,   my  treasure,   my  (.<_.//( 
things  in  one  !" 


How  lovely  she  looked  in  the  lovely 

moonlight, 
That  streamed  through  the  pane  from 

the  blue  balmy  night  ! 
How  lovely  she  looked  in  her  own 

lovely  youtli, 
As  she  clung  to  his  side  full  of  trust, 

and  of  truth  ! 
How  lovely  to  Mm  as  he  tenderly 

pressed 
Her  young  head  on  his  bosom,  and 

sadly  caressed 
The  glittering    tresses    which  now 

shaken  loose 
Showered  gold  in   his  hand,  as  he 

smoothed  them  ! 

XIII. 

O  Muse, 
Interpose  not  one  pulse  of  thine  own 

beating  heart 
'Twixt     these    two     silent    souls  I 

There's  a  joy  beyond  art. 
And    beyond    sound   the    music    it 

makes  in  the  breast. 

XIV. 

Here  were  lovers  twice  v/ed,  that 
were  happy  at  least ! 

No  music,  save  such  as  the  nightin- 
gales sung. 

Breathed  their  bridals  abroad  ;  and 
no  cresset,  upliung. 

Lit  that  festival  hour,  save  what  soft 
light  was  given 

From  tlie  pure  stars  that  peopled  the 
deep-purple  heaven. 

He  opened  the  casement:  he  led  her 
with  him. 

Hushed  in  heart,  to  the  terrace, 
dipped  cool  in  the  dim 

Lustrous  gloom  of  the  shadowy  lau- 
rels.    They  heard 

Aloof  the  invisible,  rapturous  bird, 


LUCILE^ 


12! 


Willi  lier  wild  note  bewildering  the 

woodlands  :  they  saw 
Not  unheard,  afar  off,  the  hill-rivulet 

draw 
His    long    ripple    of    moon-kindled 

wavelets  with  cheer 
From  the  throat  of  the  vale  ;  o'er  the 

dark-sapphire  sphere 
The  mild,  multitudinous  lights  lay 

asleep, 
Pastm-ed  free  on  the  midnight,  and 

bright  as  the  sheep 
Of  Apollo  in  pastoral  Thrace  ;  from 

unknown 
Hollow    glooms     freshened     odors 

aroimd  them  w^ere  blown 
Intermittingly  ;     then     the     moon 

dropped  from  their  sight, 
Immersed  in  the  mountains,  and  put 

out  the  light 
Wliich  no  longer  they  needed  to  read 

on  the  face 
Of  each  other's  life's  last  revelation. 
The  place 
Slept  sumptuous  round  them  ;  and 

Nature,  that  never 
Sleeps,    but    waking  reposes,   with 

patient  endeavor 
Continued    about  them,   unheeded, 

unseen,  [green 

Her  old,  quiet  toil  in  the  heart  of  the 
Summer  silence,  preparing  new  buds 

for  new  blossoms. 
And  stealing  a  finger  of  change  o'er 

the  bosoms 
Of  the  unconscious  woodlands  ;  and 

Time,  that  halts  not 
Ilis  forces,  how  lovely  soever  the 

spot 
"WTiere  their  march  lies, — the  wary, 

gray  strategist.  Time, 
With   the  armies  of  Life,   lay  en- 
camped,— Grief  and  Crime, 
Love  and  Faith,  in  the  darkness  un- 
heeded ;  maturing. 
For  his  great  war  with  man,  new  sur- 
prises ;  securing 
All  outlets,  pursuing  and  pushing  his 

foe 
To  Ms   last   narrow   refuge, —the 


XV. 

Sweetly  though 

Smiled  the  stars  like  new  hopes  out 
of  heaven,  and  sweetly 

Their  hearts  beat  thanksgiving  for 
all  things,  completely 

Confiding  in  tliat  yet  untrodden  ex- 
istence 

Over  which  they  were  pausing.  To- 
morrow, resistance 

And  struggle  ;  to-night.  Love  his 
hallowed  device 

Hung  forth,  and  proclaimed  his 
serene  armistice. 


CAKTO  V. 

I. 

When  Lucile  left  Matilda,  she  sat 
for  long  hours 

In  her  chamber,  fatigued  by  long 
overwrought  powers, 

'Mid  the  signs  of  departure,  about  to 
turn  back 

To  her  old  vacant  life,  on  her  old 
homeless  track. 

She  felt  her  heart  falter  within  her. 
She  sat 

Like  some  poor  player,  gazing  de- 
jectedly at 

The  insignia  of  royalty  v>'orn  for  a 
night ; 

Exhausted,  fatigued,  with  the  dazzle 
and  light. 

And  the  effort  of  passionate  feign- 
ing ;  who  thinks 

Of  her  own  meagre,  rush-lighted  gar- 
ret, and  shrinks 

From  the  chill  of  the  change  that 
awaits  her. 

n. 

From  these 

Oppressive,  and  comfortless,  blank 

reveries. 
Unable  to  sleep,  she  descended  the 

stair 
That  it;d  from  her  room  to  the  gar- 
den. 


T26 


LUCILE. 


The  air, 

With  the  chill  of  the  dawn,  yet  un- 
risen,  but  at  hand, 

Strangely  smote  on  her  feverish  fore- 
head.    The  land 

Lay  in  darkness  and  change,  like  a 
world  in  its  grave  : 

No  sound,  save  the  voice  of  the  long 
river  wave,  [night  ! 

And  the  crickets  that  sing  all  the 
She  stood  still, 

Vaguely  watching  the  thin  cloud  that 
curled  on  the  hill. 

Emotions,  long  pent  in  her  breast, 
were  at  stir, 

And  the  deeps  of  the  spirit  were 
troubled  in  her. 

Ah,  pale  woman  !  what,  with  that 
heart-broken  look, 

Didst  thou    read  then  in  nature's 
weird  lieart-breaking  book  ? 

Have  the  wild  rains  of  "heaven  a 
father  ?  and  who 

Hath  in  pity  begotten  the  drops  of 
the  dew  ?  " 

Orion,  A  returns,    who  pilots  them 
both? 

What  leads  forth  in  his  season  the 
bright  Mazaroth  ? 

Hath  the  darkness  a  dwelling, — save 
there,  in  those  eyes  ?  " 

And  what  name  hath  that  half-re- 
vealed hope  in  the  skies  ? 

Ay,  question,  and  listen  1    What  an- 
swer ? 

The  sound 

Of  the  long  river  wave  through  its 
stone-troubled  bound. 

And  the  crickets  that  sing  all  the 
night. 

There  are  hours 

Which  belong  to  imknown,  super- 
natural powers. 

Whose  sudden  and  solemn  sugges- 
tions are  all 

That  to  this  race  of  worms — stinging 
creatiu-es,  that  crawl. 

Lie,  and  fear,  and  die  daily,  beneath 
their  own  stings — 

Can  excuse  the  blind  boast  of  inher- 
ited wings. 


When  the  soul,  on  the  iiriTjiilse  of 

anguish,  hath  passed  ^ 
Beyond  anguish,  and  risen  into  rap- 
ture at  last  ; 
Wlien    she    traverses    nature    and 

space,  till  she  stands 
In  the  Chamber  of  Fate  ;    where, 

through  tremulous  hands, 
Hum  the  threads  from  an  old-fasli- 

ioned  distaff  uncurled. 
And  those  three  blind  old  women  sit 

spinning  the  world, 
ni. 
The  dark  was  blanched  wan,  over- 
head.    One  green  star    • 
Was  slipping  from  sight  in. the  pale 

void  afar  ; 
The  spirits  of  change,  and  of  awe, 

with  faint  breath 
Were  shifting  the  midnight,  above 

and  beneath. 
The  spirits  of  awe  and  of  change 

were  around. 
And  about,  and  upon  her. 

A  dull  muflfled  sound, 
And  a  hand   on  her  hand,  like  a 

ghostly  surprise. 
And  she  felt  herself  fixed  by  the  hot 

hollow  eyes 
Of  the  Frenchman  before  her  :  those 

eyes  seemed  to  burn, 
And  scorch  out  the  darkness  between 

them,  and  turn 
Into  fire  as  they  fixed  her.  He  looked 

like  the  shade 
Of  a  creature  by  fancy  from  solitude 

made, 
And  sent  forth  by  the  darkness  to 

scare  and  oppress 
Some  soul  of  a  monk  in  a  waste 

wilderness. 


"  At  last,  then, — at  last,  and  alone,— 

I  and  thou, 
Lucile  de  Nevers,  have  we  met  ? 

''  Hush  !  I  know 
N"ot  for  me  was  the  tryst.    Never 

mind  !  it  is  mine  ; 
And  whatever  led  hither  those  proud 

steps  of  thine, 


1 


LUCJLE 


127 


They  remove   not,  until  "vre   have 

spoken.     My  hour 
Is  come  ;  and  it  holds  thee  and  me 

in  its  power. 
As  the  darkness  holds  both  the  hori- 
zons.    'Tis  well  ! 
The  timidest  maiden  that  e'er  to  the 

spell 
Of  hor  first  lover's  vows  listened, 

hushed  with  delight. 
When  soft  stars  were  brightly  up- 
hanging  the  night, 
Never  listened,  I  sv/ear,  more  un- 

questioningly 
Than  thy  fate  liath  compelled  thee 

to  listen  to  me  ! " 
To  the  sound  of  his  voice,  as  though 

out  of  a  dream, 
She  appeared  with  a  start  to  awaken. 
The  stream, 
When  he  ceased,  took  the  night  with 

its  moaning  again, 
Like  the  voices  of  spirits  departing 

in  pain. 
*'  Continue,"  she  answered,  **  I  listen 

to  hear." 
For  a  moment  he  did  not  reply. 

Through  the  drear 
And  dim  light  between  them,  she 

saw  that  his  face 
Wa.3  disturbed.    To  and  fro  he  con- 
tinued to  pace, 
With  his  arms  folded  close,  and  the 

low  restless  stride 
Of  a  panther,  in  circles  around  her, 

first  wide, 
Then  narrower,  nearer,  and  quicker. 

At  last 
He  stood  still,  and  one  long  look 

upon  her  he  cast. 
**  Lucile,  dost  thou  dare  to  look  into 

my  face  ? 
Is  the  sight  so  repugnant  ?  ha,  well  ! 

Canst  thou  trace 
One  word   of    thy  writing  in  this 

wicked  scroll. 
With   thine    own    name    scrawled 

through  it,  defacing  a  soul  ?  " 
In  his  face  there  was  something  so 

wrathful  and  wild. 
That  the  sight  of  it  scared  her. 


He  saw  it,  and  smiled. 
And  then  turned  him  from  her,  re- 
newing again 
That  short,  restless  stride;  as  though 

searching  in  vain 
For  the  point  of  some  purpose  within 

him. 

"  Lucile, 
You  shudder  to  look  in  my  face  :  do 

you  feel 
No  reproach  when  you  look  in  your 

own  heart  ?  " 

"No,  Duke, 
In  my  conscience  I  do  not  deserve 

your  rebuke  : 
Not  yours  !  "  she  replied. 

*'No,"  he  muttered  again, 
"  Gentle  justice  !  you  first  bid  Life 

hope  not,  and  then 
To  Despair  you  say  '  Act  not ! '  " 

V. 

He  watched  her  awhile 
With  a  chill  sort  of  restless  and  suf- 
fering smile. 
Th-ey  stood  by  the  wall  of  the  garden. 

The  sides. 
Dark,    sombre,   were  troubled  with 

vague  prophecies 
Of  the  dawn  yet  far  distant.     The 

moon  had  long  set, 
And  all  in  a  glimmering  light,  pale, 

and  wet 
With  the  night-dews,  the  white  roses 

sullenly  loomed 
Round  about  her.     She  spoke  not. 

At  length  he  resumed. 
"  Wretched  creatures  we  are  I    I  and 

thou, — one  and  all  ! 
Only  able  to  injure  each  other,  ami 

fall 
Soon  or  late,  in  that  void  which  oar- 
selves  we  prepare 
For  the  souls  that  we  boast  of  !  weak 

insects  we  are  ! 
O  heaven  !  and  what  has  become  of 

them  ?  all 
Those  instincts  of  Eden  surviving 

the  Fall  : 
That    glorious    faith    in    inherited 

things  : 


J23 


LUCTLE. 


That  sense  in  the  soul  of  the  length 

of  her  wings  ; 
Gone  I  ail  gone  !  and  the  wail  of  the 

night-wind  sounds  human, 
Bewailing  those  once  nightly  visit- 
ants !    Woman, 
Womaii,  what  hast  thou  done  with 

my  youth  ?    Give  again, 
Give  me  back  the  young  heart  that 

I  gave  thee  ...  in  vain  I " 
"Duke  1"  she  faltered. 
"  Yes,  yes  I "  he  went  on,  **'  I  was 

not 
Always  thus  I  what  I  once  was,  I 

have  not  forgot." 

VI. 

As  the  wind  that  heaps  sand  in  a 
desert,  there  stirred 

Through  his  voice  an  emotion  that 
swept  every  word 

Into  one  angry  wail ;  as,  with  fever- 
ish change. 

He  continued  his  monologue,  fitful 
and  strange. 

*'  Woe  to  him,  in  whose  nature,  once 
kindled,  the  torch 

Of  Passion  burns  downward  to  black- 
en and  scorch  ! 

But  shame,  shame  and  sorrow,  O 
woman,  to  thee 

Whose  hand  sov/ed  the  seed  of  de- 
struction in  me  I 

Whose  lip  taught  the  lesson  of  false- 
hood to  mine  ! 

Whose  looks  made  me  doubt  lies  that 
looked  so  divine  I 

My  soul  by  thy  beauty  was  slain  in 
its  sleep  : 

And  if  tears  I  mistrust,  'tis  that  thou 
too  canst  weep  I 

Well  I  .  .  .  how  utter  soever  it  be, 
one  mistake 

In  the  love  of  a  man,  what  more 
change  need  it  make 

In  the  steps  of  his  soul  through  the 
course  love  began. 

Than  all  other  mistakes  in  the  life 
of  a  man  ? 

And  I  said  to  myself,  *  I  am  young 
yet :  too  young 


To  have  wholly  survived  my  own 
portion  among 

The  great  needs  of  man's  life,  or  ex- 
hausted its  joys  ; 

What  is  broken  ?  one  only  of  youth's 
pleasant  toys  ; 

Shall  I  be  the  less  welcome,  where- 
ever  I  go. 

For  one  passion  survived  ?  No  I  the 
roses  will  blow 

As  of  yore,  as  of  yore  will  the  night- 
ingales sing, 

Not  less  sweetly  for  one  blossom  can- 
celled from  Spring  ! 

Hast  thou  loved,  O  my  heart?  to 
thy  love  yet  remains 

All  the  wide  loving-kindness  of 
natm-e.     The  plains 

And  the  hills  with  each  summer 
their  verdure  renew. 

Wouldst  thou  be  as  they  are  ?  do 
thou  then  as  they  do. 

Let  the  dead  sleep  in  peace.  Would 
the  living  divine 

Where  they  slumber  ?  Let  only  new 
flowers  be  the  sign  I 

"  Vain  !   all  vain  !  .  .  .  For  when, 

laughing,   the  wine  I   would 

quaif, 
I  remembered  too  well  all  it  cost  me 

to  laugh. 
Through  the  revel  it  was  but  the  old 

song  I  heard, 
Through  the  crowd  the  old  footsteps 

behind  me  they  stirred. 
In  the  night-wind,  the  starlight,  the 

murmurs  of  even. 
In  the  ardors  of  earth,  and  the  lan- 
guors of  heaven, 
I  could  trace  nothing  more,  nothing 

more  through  the  spheres. 
But  the  so^md  of  old  sobs,  and  the 

tracks  of  old  tears  1 
It  was  with  me  the  night  long  In 

dreaming  or  waking, 
It  abided  in  loathing,  when  daylight 

was  breaking. 
The  burden  of  the  bitterness  in  me  I 

Behold, 
All  my  days  were  become  art  a  tale 

that  is  told. 


LUCILE. 


129 


And  I  said  to  my  sight,  'No  good 
thing  Shalt  thou  see, 

For  the  noonday  is  tume'd  to  dark- 
ness in  rae. 

In  the  house  of  Oblivion  my  bed  I 
have  made.' 

Aiid  I  said  to  the  grave,  'Lo,  my 
father  I '  and  said 

To  the  worm,  *  Lo,  my  sister  I '  The 
dust  to  the  dust, 

Aiid  one  end  to  the  wicked  shall  be 
with  the  just  I " 

vn. 
He  ceased,  as  a  wind  that  wails  out 

on  the  night. 
And  moans  itself  mute.     Through 

the  indistinct  light 
A  voice  clear,  and  tender,  and  pure 

with  a  tone 
Of  ineffable  pity  replied  to  his  own. 
'*  And  say  you,  and  deem  you,  that 

I  wrecked  your  life  ? 
Alas  !  Due  de  Luvois,  had  I  been 

your  wife 
By  a  fraud  of  the  heart  which  could 

yield  you  alone 
For  the  love  in  your  nature  a  lie  in 

my  own, 
Should  I  not,  in  deceiving,  have  in- 
jured you  worse  ? 
Yes,  I  then  should    have  merited 

justly  your  ciu-se. 
For  I    then  should  have    wronged 

you  !" 

*'  Wronged  !  ah,  is  it  so  ? 

Tou  could  never  have  loved  me  ?  " 

"Duke  !" 

"Never?  O  no  !  " 

(He  broke  into  a  fierce,  angry  laugh, 

as  he  said) 
"  Yet,  lady,  you  knew  that  I  loved 

you  :  you  led 
My  love  on  to  lay  to  its  heart,  hour 

by  hour. 
All  the  pale,  cruel,  beautiful,  passion- 
less power 
Shut  up  in  that  cold  face  of  yours  ! 

was  this  well  ? 
But  enough,  not  on  you  would  I  vent 

the  wild  hell 

8 


Which  has  grown  in  my  heart.     O 
that  man,  first  and  last 

He  tramples  in  triumph  my  life  !  he 
has  cast 

His  shadow  'twixt  me  and  the  sun 
...  let  it  pass  ! 

My  hate  yet  may  find  him  ! " 

She  murmured,  "Alas  ! 

These  words,  at  least,  spare  me  the 
pain  of  reply. 

Enough,  Due  de  Luvois  !  farewell. 
I  shall  try  [every  sight 

To  forget  every  word  I  have  heard, 

That  has  grieved  and  appalled  me  in 
this  wretched  night 

Which  must  witness  our  final  fare- 
well.    May  you,  Duke, 

Never  know  greater  cause  your  own 
heart  to  rebuke 

Than  mine  thus  to  wrong  and  afflict 
vou  have  had  ! 

Adieu  V' 

"Stay,   Lucile,   stay!"   ...    he 
groaned,  .  .  .  "I  am  mad, 

Brutalized,  blind  with  pain  !  I  know 
not  what  I  said. 

I  meant  it  not.    But"  (he  moaned, 
drooping  his  head) 

"  Forgive  me  !    I — have  I  so  wrong- 
ed you,  Lucile  ? 

I  .  .  .  have  I  .  .  .  forgive  me,  for- 
give me  ! " 

"  I  feel 

Only  sad,  very  sad  to  the  soul,"  she 
said,  "far. 

Far  too  sad  for  resentment." 

"  Yet  stand  as  you  are 

One  moment,"  he  murmured.     "  I 
think,  could  I  gaze 

Thus  awhile  on  your  face,  the  old  in- 
nocent days 

Would  come  back  upon  me,  and  this 
scorching  heart 

Free  itself  in  hot  tears.     Do  not,  do 
not  depart 

Thus,  Lucile  !  stay  one  moment.     I 
know  why  you  shrink, 

Why  you  shudder  ;  I  read  in  your 
face  what  you  think. 

Do  not  speak  to  me  of  it.     And  yet, 
if  you  will, 


1^0 


LUCILE. 


Whatever  you  say,  my  own  lips  shall 

be  still. 
I  lied.    And  the  truth,  now,  could 

justify  naught. 
There  are    battles,   it    may    be,   in 

which  to  have  fought 
Is  more  shameful  than,  simply,  to 

fail.     Yet,  Lucile, 
Had  you  helped  me  to  bear  what  you 

forced  me  to  feel — " 
*'  Could  I  help  you,"  she  murmured, 

"but  what  can  I  say 
That  your  life  will  respond  to  ? " 

"  My  life  ?  "  he  sighed.  "  Nay, 
My  life  hath  brought  forth  only  evil, 

and  there 
The  wild  wind  hath  planted  the  wild 

weed  :  yet  ere 
You  exclaim,  '  Fling  the  weed  to  the 

flames,'  think  again 
Why  the  field  is  so  barren.     With  all 

other  men  [only  goes 

First  love,  though  it  perish  from  Hfe, 
Like  the  primrose  that  falls  to  make 

way  for  the  rose. 
For  a  man,  at  least  most  men,  may 

love  on  through  life  : 
Love  in  fame  ;  love  in  knowledge  ; 

in  work  :  earth  is  rife 
With  labor,  and  therefore  with  love, 

for  a  man. 
If  one  love  fails,  another  succeeds, 

and  the  plan 
Of  man's  life  includes  love  in  all 

objects  !    But  I  ? 
All  such  loves  from  my  life  through 

its  whole  destiny 
Fate  excluded.     The  love  that  I  gave 

you,  alas  ! 
Was  the  sole  lo\e  that  life  gave  to 

me.     Let  that  pass  ! 
It  perished,  and  all  perished  with  it. 

Ambition  ? 
Wealth  left  nothing  to  add  to  my 

social  condition. 
Fame  ?    But  fame  in  itself  presup- 
poses some  great 
Field  wherein  to  pursue  and  attain 

it.     The  State  ? 
1,  to  cringe  to  an  upstart  ?     The 

Camp  ?  I,  to  draw 


From  its  sheath  the  old  sword  of  the 

Dukes  of  Luvois 
To     defend     usurpation  ?     Books, 

then  ?    Science,  Art  ? 
But,  alas !  I  was  fashioned  for  action : 

my  heart. 
Withered  thing  though  it  be,  I  should 

hardly  compress 
'Twixt  the  leaves  of  a  treatise  on 

Statics  :  life's  stress 
Needs  scope,  not  contraction  I  what 

rests  ?  to  wear  out 
At  some  dark  northern  court  an  ex- 
istence, no  doubt, 
In  wretched  and  paltry  intrigues  for 

a  cause 
As  hopeless  as  is  my  own  life  !    By 

the  laws  [dispute. 

Of  a  fate  I  can  neither  control  nor 
I  am  what  I  am  ! " 

VIII. 

For  a  while  she  was  mute. 
Then  she  answered,   "We  are  our 

own  fates.     Our  own  deeds 
Are  our  doomsraen.     Man's  life  was 

made  not  for  men's  creeds. 
But  men's  actions.     And,  Due  de 

Luvois,  I  might  say 
That  all  life  attests,  that  '  the  will 

makes  the  way.' 
Is  the  land  of  our  birth  less  the  land 

of  our  birth. 
Or  its  claim  the  less  strong,  or  its 

cause  the  less  worth 
Our  upholding,  because  the  white 

lily  no  more 
Is  as  sacred  as  all  that  it  bloomed 

for  of  yore  ? 
Yet  be  that  as  it  may  be ;  I  cannot 

perchance 
Judge  this  matter    I  am  but  a  wo- 
man, and  France 
Has  for  me  simpler  duties.     Large 

hope,  though,  Eugene 
De  Luvois,  should  be  yours.    There 

is  purpose  in  pain. 
Otherwise  it  were  devilish.     I  trust 

in  my  soul 
That  the  great  master  hand  which 

sweeps  over  the  whole 


LVCILR. 


'31 


Of  tliis  deep  harp  of  life,  if  at  mo- 
ments it  stretch 
To  shrill  tension  some  one  wailing 

nerve,  means  to  fetch 
Its  response  the  truest,  most  strin- 
gent, and  smart, 
Its  pathos  the  purest,  from  out  the 

wrung  heart, 
Wliose  faculties,  flaccid  it  may  be,  if 

less 
Sharply  strung,  sharply  smitten,  had 

failed  lo  express 
Just  the  one  note  the  great  final  har- 
mony needs. 
And  what  best  proves  there's  life  in 

a  heart  ? — that  it  bleeds  ! 
Grant  a  cause  to  remove,  grant  an 

end  to  attain, 
Grant  both  to    be  just,   and  what 

mercy  in  pain  ! 
Cease  the  sin  with  the  sorrow  !    See 

morning  begin  ! 
Pain  must  burn  Itself  out    if    not 

fuelled  by  sin. 
There  is  hope  in  yon  hill-tops,  and 

love  in  yon  light. 
Let  hate  and  despondency  die  with 

the  night  !" 

He  was  moved  by  her  words.  As 
some  poor  wretch  confined 

In  cells  loud  with  meaningless  laugh- 
ter, whose  mind 

Wanders  trackless  amidst  its  own 
ruins,  may  hear 

A  voice  heard  long  since,  silenced 
many  a  year, 

And  now,  'mid  mad  ravings  recap- 
tured again, 

Singing  through  the  caged  lattice  a 
once  well-known  strain, 

Which  brings  back  his  boyhood  upon 
it,  until 

The  mind's  ruined  crevices  gracious- 
ly fill 

With  music  and  memory,  and,  as  it 
were^ 

The  long-troubled  spirit  grows  slowly 
aware 

Of  the  mockery  round  it,  and  shrinks 
from  each  thiiDg 


It  once  sought, — the  poor  idiot  who 

passed  for  a  king. 
Hard    by,  with    his    squalid    straw 

crown,  now  confessed 
A  madman  more  painfully  mad  than 

the  rest, — 
So  the  sound  of  her  voice,  as  it  there 

wandered  o'er 
His  echoing  heart,  seemed  in  part  to 

restore 
The  forces  of  thought :  he  recaptured 

the  whole 
Of  his  life  by  the  light  which,  in 

passing,  her  soul 
Reflected   on  his  :   he  appeared   to 

awake 
From  a  dream,  and  perceived  he  had 

dreamed  a  mistake  : 
His  spirit  was  softened,  yet  troubled 

in  him  : 
He  felt  his  lips  falter,  his^  eyesight 

grow  dim, 
But  he  murnnu'ed  .  .  . 
"  Lucile,  not  for  me  that  sun's  light 
Which  reveals  —  not  restores  —  the 

wild  havoc  of  night. 
There  are  some  creatures  born  for 

the  night,  not  the  day. 
Broken-hearted  the  nightingale  hides 

in  the  spray. 
And  the  owl's  moody  mind  in  his 

own  hollow  tower 
Dwells  muffled.     Be  darkness  hence- 
forward my  dower. 
Light,  be  sure,  in  that  darkness  there 

dwells,  by  which  eyes 
Grown  familiar  with  ruins  may  yet 

recognize 
Enough  desolation." 

IX. 

"The  pride  that  claims  here 
On  earth  to  itself  (howsoever  severe 
To  itself  it  may  be)  God's  dread  oflice 

and  right 
Of  punishing  sin,  is  a  sin  in  heaven's 

sight,' 
And  against  heaven's  service. 

"  Eugene  de  Luvois, 
Leave  the  judgment  to    Him   wh^ 

alone  knows  the  law. 


1^2 


LUCILE. 


Surely  no  man  can  be  his  own  judge, 

least  of  all 

His  own  doomsman."  I 

Her  words  seemed  to  fall  ! 

With  the  weight  of  tears  in  them.       > 

He  looked  up,  and  saw  i 

That  sad  serene  countenance,  mom-n- 

ful  as  law 
And  tender  as  pity,  bowed  o'er  him : 

and  heard 
In  some  thicket  the  matinal  chirp  of 

a  bird. 

X. 

"  Vulgar  natures  alone  suffer  vainly. 

"Eugene,*" 

She  continued,  ''  in  life  we  have  met 

once  again, 
And  once  more  life  parts  us.     Yon 

day-spring  for  me 
Lifts  the  veil  of  a  f utm-e  in  which  it 

m^  be 
We  shall  meet  nevermore.     Grant, 

O  grant  to  me  yet 
The  belief  tbat  it  is  not  in  vain  we 

have  met  ! 
I  plead  for  the  future.     A  new  horo- 
scope 
I  would  cast  :  will  you  read  it  ?    I 

plead  for  a  hope  : 
I  plead  for  a  memory  ;  yom's,  yours 

alone. 
To  restore  or  to  spare.     Let  the  hope 

be  your  own. 
Be  the  memory  mine. 

*'  Once  of  yore,  when  for  man 
Faith  yet  lived,  ere  this  age  of  the 

eluggard  began, 
Men,  aroused  to  the  knowledge  of 

evil,  ficd  far 
From    the    fading   rose-gardens    of 

sense,  to  the  war 
With  the  Pagan,   the  cave  in  the 

desert,  and  sought 
Not  repose,  but  employment  in  action 

or  thought. 
Life's  strong  earnest,  in  all  things  ! 

O  think  not  of  me. 
But  yourself  !  for  I  plead  for  your 

own  destiny  : 
I  plead  for  your  life,  with  its  duties 

undone, 


With  its  claims  un appeased,  and  its 
trophies  unwon  ; 

And  in  pleading  for  life's  fair  fulfil- 
ment, I  plead 

For  all  that  you  miss,  and  for  all  that 
you  need." 

XI. 

Through  the  calm  crystal  air,  faint 

and  far,  as  she  spoke, 
A  clear,  chilly  chime  from  a  church- 
turret  broke  ; 
And  the  sound  of  her  voice,  with  the 

sound  of  the  bell. 
On  his  ear,  where  he  kneeled,  softly, 

sootiiingly  fell. 
All  within  him  was  wild  and  con- 
fused ,  as  within 
A  chamber  deserted  in  some  roadside 

«nn, 
Where,      passing,    wild     travellers 

paused,  over-niglit, 
To  quaff  and  carouse ;  in  each  socket 

each  light 
Is  extinct  ;  crashed  the  glasses,  and 

scrawled  is  the  wall 
With  wild  ribald  ballads  :  serenely 

o'er  all. 
For  the  first  lime  perceived,  where 

the  dawn-light  creeps  faint 
Through  the  wrecks  of  that  orgy,  the 

face  of  a  saint, 
Seen  through  some  broken  frame, 

appears  noting  meanwhile 
The  niin  all  round  with  a  sorrowful 

smile. 
And  he  gazed  round.     The  curtains 

of  Darkness  half  drawn 
Oped  behind  her  ;  and  pure  as  the 

pure  light  of  dawn. 
She  stood,  bathed  in  morning,  and 

seemed  to  his  eyes 
From  their  sight  to  be  melting  av/ay 

in  the  skies 
That  expanded  around  her, 

XII. 

There  passed  through  his  head 
A  fancy, — a  vision.     That    woman 

was  dead 
He  had  loved  long  ago, — loved  and 

lost  !  dead  to  him, 


LUCILR. 


m 


Dead  to  ail  fehe  life  lelL  him  ;  but 
tliere.  in  the  dim 

Devry  light  of  the  da^vn,  stood  a 
spirit  ;  'twas  hers  ; 

And  he  said  to  the  soul  of  Liicile  de 
Nevers  :  [away  ! 

**0   soul    to  its    sources    departing 

Pray  for  mine,  if  one  soul  for  anoth- 
er may  pray. 

I  to  ask  have  no  Vight,  thou  to  give 
hast  no  power, 

One  hope  to  my  heart.  But  in  this 
parting  hour 

I  name  not  my  heart,  and  I  speak 
not  to  thine. 

Answer,  soul  of  Lucile,  to  this  dark 
soul  of  mine, 

Does  not  soul  ©we  to  soul,  what  to 
heart  heart  denies, 

Hope,  when  hope  is  salvation  ?  Be- 
hold, in  yon  skies, 

This  wild  night  is  passing  away  while 
I  speak  : 

Lo,  above  us,  the  day-spring  begin- 
ning to  break  ! 

Something  wakens  within  me,  and 
warms  to  the  beam. 

Is  it  hope  that  av/akens  ?  or  do  I  but 
dream  ? 

I  know  not.  It  may  be,  perchance, 
the  first  spark 

Of  a  new  light  within  me  to  solace 
the  dark 

Unto  which  I  return  ;  or  perchance 
it  may  be 

The  last  spark  of  fires  half  extin- 
guished in  me. 

I  know  not.  Thou  goest  thy  way  :  I 
my  own : 

For  good  or  for  evil,  I  know  not. 
Alone 

This  I  know  ;  we  are  parting.  I 
wished  to  say  more. 

But  no  matter  !  'twill  pass.  All  be- 
tween us  is  o'er. 

Forget  the  wild  words  of  to-night. 
'Twas  the  pain 

For  long  years  hoarded  up,  that  rush- 
ed from  me  again. 

I  was  unjust :  forgive  me.  Spare 
now  to  reprove 


Other   words,  other  deeds.     It  was 

madness,  not  love, 
That  you  thwarted  this  night.  Wliat 

is  done  is  now  done. 
Death  remains  to  avenge  it,  or  life  to 

atone. 
I  was  maddened,  delirious  !    I  saw 

you  return 
To  hiin— not  to  me  ;  and  I  felt  my 

heart  burn 
With  a  fierce  thirst  for  vengeance— 

and  thus  ...  let  it  pass  ! 
Long  thoughts  these,    and   so  brief 

the  moments,  alas  ! 
Thou  goest  thy  w^ay,  and  I  mine.     I 

sup230se 
'Tis  to  meet  nevermore.     Is  it  not 

so  ?    Wlio  knows. 
Or  who  heeds,  where  the  exile  from 

Paradise  flies  ? 
Or  what  altars  of  his  in  the  desert 

may  rise  ? 
Is  it  not  so,  Lucile  ?    "Well,   well  ! 

Thus  then  we  part 
Once  again,  soul  from  soul,  as  before 

heart  from  heart  ! " 

xm. 

Kn^  again,  clearer  far  than  the  chime 
of  tiiebell, 

That  voice  on  his  sense  softly,  sooth- 
ingly fell. 

"  Our  two  paths  must  part  us,  Eu- 
gene :  for  my  own 

Seems  no  more  through  that  world 
in  which  henceforth  alone 

You  must  work  out  ( as  now  I  believe 
that  you  will) 

The  hope  which  you  speak  of.  That 
work  I  shall  still 

(If  I  live)  watch  and  welcome,  and 
bless  far  away. 

Doubt  not  this.  But  mistake  uot  tLo 
thought,  if  I  say. 

That  the  great  moral  combat  between 
human  life 

And  each  human  soul  must  be  single. 
The  strife 

None  can  share,  though  by  all  its  re- 
suits  may  be  known. 


^34 


tUClLB. 


Wlien  the  soul  arras  for  battle,  slie 
goes  forth  alone. 

I  say  not,  indeed,  we  shall  meet  nev- 
ermore. 

For  I  know  not.  But  meet,  as  we 
have  met  of  yore, 

I  laiow  that  we  cannot.  Perchance 
we  may  meet 

By  the  death-bed,  the  tomb,  in  the 
crowd,  in  the  street. 

Or  in  solitude  even,  but  never  again 

IS  hall  we  meet  from  henceforth  as 
we  have  met,  Eugene. 

For  we  know  not  the  way  we  are  go- 
ing, nor  yet 

Where  our  two  ways  may  meet,  or 
may  cross.     Life  hath  set 

No  landmarks  before  us.  But  this, 
this  alone, 

I  will  promise  :  whatever  your  path, 
or  my  own. 

If,  for  once  in  the  conflict  before  you, 
it  chance 

That  the  Dragon  prevail,  and  with 
cleft  shield,  and  lance 

Lost  or  shattered,  borne  down  by  the 
stress  of  the  war, 

You  falter  and  hesitate,  if  from  afar 

I,  still  watching  (unknown  to  your- 
self, it  may  be) 

O'er  the  conflict  to  which  I  conjure 
you,  should  see 

That  my  presence  could  rescue,  sup- 
port you,  or  guide, 

In  the  hour  of  that  need  I  shall  be 
at  your  side. 

To  warn,  if  you  will,  or  incite,  or 
control  ; 

And  again,  once  again,  we  shall 
meet,  soul  to  soul  ! " 

XIV. 

Thfe  voice  ceased. 

He  uplifted  his  eyes. 

All  alone 
He  stood  on  the  bare  edge  of  dawn. 

She  was  gone. 
Like  a  star,  when  up  bay  after  bay 

of  the  night, 
Eipplee  in,  wave  on  wave,  the  broad 
ocean  of  light. 


And  at  once,  in  her  place,  was  the 

Sunrise  !    It  rose 
In    its     sumptuous     splendor    and 

solemn  repose. 
The  supreme    revelation    of    light. 

Domes  of  gold, 
Realms  of  rose,  in  the  Orient  !  And 

breathless,  and  bold, 
"^Vhile  the  great  gates  of  he  aven  roll- 
ed back  one  by  one. 
The  bright  herald  angel  stood  stern 

in  the  sun  ! 
Thrice    holy    Eospheros  !      Light's 

reign  began 
In  the  heaven,  on  the  earth,  in  the 

lieart  of  the  man. 
The  dawn  on   the  mountains  !  the 

dawn  everywhere  ! 
Light !  silence  I  the  fresh  innovations 

of  air  ! 
O  earth,  and  O  ether  !    A  butterfly 

breeze 
Floated    up,    fluttered    down,    and 

poised  blithe  on  the  trees. 
Through  the  revelling  woods,  o'er 

the  sharp- rippled  stream, 
LTp  the  vale  slow  uncoiling  itself  out 

of  dream. 
Around  the  brown  meadows,  ado^vn 

the  hill-slope, 
The  spiritrsof  morning  were  whisper- 
ing, "•  Hope  I " 

XV. 

He  uplifted  his  eyes.    In  the  place 

where  she  stood 
But  a    moment  before,  and  where 

now  rolled  the  flood 
Of  the  sunrise  all  golden,  he  seemed 

to  behold. 
In  the  young  light  of  sunrise,   an 

image  unfold 
Of  his  own  youth, — its  ardors, — its 

promise  of  fame, — 
Its  ancestral  ambition  ;  and  France 

by  the  name 
Of  his  sires  seemed    to    call    him 

There,  hovered  in  light. 
That  image  aloft,  o'er  the ^shapeleES 

and  brisht 


LUCILE. 


^35 


And  Aurorean  clouds,  which  them- 
selves seeTiied  to  be 
Brilliant  fragments  of  that  golden 

world,  wherein  lie 
Had  once  dwelt,  a  native  ! 

There,  rooted  and  bound 
To  the  earth,  stood  the  man,  gazing 

at  it  !    Around 
The  rims  of  the  simrise  it  hovered 

and  shone 
Transcendent,  that  type  of  a  youth 

that  was  gone  : 
And  he, — as  the  body  may  yearn  for 

the  soul, 
So  he  yearned  to  embody  that  image. 

His  whole 
Heart  arose  to  regain  it. 

"And  is  it  too  late  ?" 
No  !   For  time  is  a  fiction,  and  limits 

not  fate. 
Thouglit    alone    is    eternal.      Time 

"thralls  it  in  vain. 
For  the  thought  that  springs  upward 

and  yearns  to  regain 
The  pure  source  of  spirit,  there  is  no 

Too  LATE. 

As  the  stream  to  its  first  mountain 

levels,  elate 
In  the  fountain  arises,  the  spirit  in 

him 
Arose  to    that  image.     The  image 

waned  dim 
Into  heaven  ;  and  heavenward  with 

it,  to  melt 
As  it  melted,  in  day's  broad  expan- 
sion, he  felt 
With  a  thrill,  sweet  and  strange,  and 

intense, — awed,  amazed, — 
Something   soar  and  ascend  in  his 

soul,  as  he  gazed. 


CA^TO  VI. 


Man  is  bom  on  a  battle-field.  Round 
him,  to  rend 

Or  resist,  the  dread  Powers  he  dis- 
places attend, 

h>y  the  cradle  which  Nature,  aiuidst 
the  stern  shocks 


That  have  shattered  creation,  and 
shapen  it,  rocks. 

He  leaps  with  a  wail   into  being  ; 
and  lo  ! 

His  own  mother,  fierce  Nafare  her- 
self, is  his  foe. 

Her    whirlwinds    are    roused    into 
Avrath  o'er  his  head  : 

'Neath  his  feet  roll  her  earthquakes  : 
her  solitudes  spread 

To  daimt  him  :    her  forces  dispute 
his  command  : 

Her  snows  fall  to  freeze  him  :  her 
Sims  burn  to  brand  : 

Her  seas  yawn  to  engulf  him  :  her 
rocks  rise  to  crush  : 

And  the  lion  and  leopard,  allied,  Inrk 
to  rush 

On  their  startled  invader. 

In  lone  Malabar., 

"Where    the    infinite    forest  spreads 
breathless  and  far, 

'Mid  the  cruel  of  eye  and  the  stealthy 
of  claw 

(Striped  and  spotted  destroyers  !)  he 
se-es.  pale  with  awe, 

On  the  menacing  edge  of  a  fiery  sky 

Grim  Doorga,  blue-limbed  and  red- 
handed,  go  by,  [Terror. 

And  the  first  thing  he  worships  is 
Anon, 

Still  impelled  by  necessity  hungrily 
on, 

He  conquers  the  realms  of  his  own 
self-reliance, 

And  the  last  cry  of  fear  wakes  the 
first  of  defiance. 

From  the  sei-pent  he  crushes  its  poi- 
sonous soul  : 

Smitten  down  in  his  path  see  the 
dead  lion  roll  ! 

On  toward  Heaven  the  son  of  Ale- 
mena  strides  high  on 

The  heads  of  the  Hydra,  the  spoil? 
of  the  lion  : 

And  man,  conquering  Terror,  is  wor- 
shipped by  man. 

A  camp  has  this  world  been  since 
first  it  began  ! 

From  his  tents  sweeps  the  roviAg 
Arabian ;  at  peaQe^ 


1S& 


LUCILR. 


A  mere  wandering  sliepherd  that  fol- 
lows the  fleece  ; 

But,  warring  his  way  through  a 
world's  destinies, 

Lo,  from  Delhi,  from  Eagdadt,  from 
Cordova,  rise 

Domes  of  empiry,  dowered  with 
science  and  art. 

Schools,  libraries,  forums,  the  pal- 
ace, the  mart ! 

Kew  realms  to  man's  soul  have  been 

conquered.     But  those, 
Forthwith  they  are  peopled  for  man 

by  new  foes  ! 
The  stars    keep    their  secrets,   the 

earth  hides  her  own. 
And  bold  must    the    man  be  that 

braves  the  UnknouTi  ! 
Not  a  truth  has  to  art  or  to  science 

been  given, 
But  brows  have  ached  for  it,  and 

souls  toiled  and  striven  ; 
And  many  have  striven,  and  many 

have  failed, 
And  many  died,  slain  by  the  truth 

they  assailed. 
But  when  Man  hath  tamed  Nature, 

asserted  his  place 
And  dominion,  behold !  he  is  brought 

face  to  face 
With  a  new  foe, — himself  ! 

Nor  may  man  on  his  shield 
Ever  rest,  for  his  foe  is  forever  afield, 
Danger  ever  at  hand,  till  the  arme'd 

Archangel 
Sound  o'er  him  the  trump  of  earth's 

final  evangel. 
II. 
Silence  straightway,  stern  Muse,  the 

soft  cymbals  of  pleasure. 
Be  all  bronzen  these  numbers,  and 

martial  the  measure  ! 
Breathe,  sonorously  breathe,  o'er  the 

spirit  in  me 
One  strain,  sad  and  stem,  of  that 

deep  Epopee 
"Which  thou,  from  the  fashionless 

cloud  of  far  time, 
Chantest  lonely,  when  Victory,  pale, 

and  subiiine 


In  the  light  of  the  aureole  over  her 
head, 

Hears,  and  heeds  not  the  woimd  in 
her  heart  fresh  and  red. 

Blown  wide  by  the  blare  of  the  clar- 
ion, unfold 

The  shrill  clanging  curtains  of  war  ! 
And  behold 

A  vision  ! 

The  antique  Heraclean  seats  ; 

And  the  long  Black  Sea  billow  that 
once  bore  those  fleets. 

Which  said  to  the  winds,  '*  Be  ye, 
too,  Genoese  ! " 

And    the  red    angry  sands  of  the 
chafed  Chersonese  ; 

And  the  two  foes  of  man,  War  and 
Winter,  allied 

Round  tlie  Armies  of  England  and 
France,  side  by  side 

Enduring  and  dying  (Gaul  and  Brit- 
on abreast  !) 

Where  the  towers  of  the  North  fret 
the  skies  of  the  East. 


Since  that  sunrise,  which  rose 
through  the  calm  linden  steins 

O'er  Lucile  and  Eugene,  in  the  gar- 
den at  Ems, 

Through  twenty-five  seasons  encir- 
cling the  sun, 

This  planet  of  ours  on  its  pathway 
hath  gone, 

And  the  fates  that  I  sing  of  have 
flowed  with  the  fates 

Of  a  world,  in  the  red  wake  of  war, 
round  the  gates 

Of  that  doomed  and  heroical  city,  in 
which 

(Fire  crowning  the  rampart,  blood 
bathing  the  ditch  I) 

At  bay,  fights  the  Eussian  as  some 
hunted  bear. 

Whom  the  huntsmen  have  hemmed 
round  at  last  in  his  lair. 

IV. 

A  fanged,  arid  plain,  sapped  with 

imderground  fire, 
Soaked  with  snow,  torn  with  shot, 

mashed  to  one  gory  iuire  ! 


LUC7LE. 


137 


There  Plate's  iron  scale  hangs  in  hor- 
rid suspense, 

While  those  two  famished  ogres, — 
the  Siege,  the  Defence, 

Face  to  face,  through  a  vapor  froro, 
dismal,  and  dun. 

Glare,  scenting  the  breath  of  each 
other. 

The  one 

Double-bodied,  two-headed, — by  sep- 
arate ways 

Winding,  serpent-wise,  nearer  ;  the 
other,  each  day's 

Sullen  toil  adding  size  to, — concen- 
trated, solid. 

Indefatigable,  —  the    brass-fronted, 
embodied, 

And  audible  avros  gone  sombrely  forth 

To  the  world   from  that  Autocrat 
V7in  of  the  north  ! 


In  the  dawn  of  a  moody  October,  a 
pale 

Ghostly  motionless  vapor  began  to 
prevail 

Over  city  and  camp  ;  like  the  gar- 
ment of  de'ath 

Which  (is  foi-med by)  the  face  it  con- 
ceals. 

'Twas  the  breath 

War,  yet  drowsily  yawning,  began  to 
suspire  ; 

Wherethrough,  here  and  there,  flash- 
ed an  eye  of  red  fire. 

And  closed,  from  some  rampart  be- 
ginning to  bellow 

Hoarse  challenge  ;  replied  to  anon, 
through  the  yellow 

And  sulphurous   tv/ilight  :   till    day 
reeled  and  rocked, 

And  roared  into  dark.      Then   the 
midnight  war,  mocked 

With    fierce    apparitions.       Einged 
round  by  a  rain 

Of  red  fire,  and  of  iron,  the  murther- 
ous  plain 

Flared  with  fitful  combustion ;  v/here 
fitfully  fell 

Aiar  off  the  fatal,  disgorged  schar- 


And  fired  the  horizon,  and  singed 

the  coiled  gloom 
With  wings  of  swift  flame  round  that 

City  of  Doom. 


So  the  day — so  the  night  !    So  by 

night,  so  by  day. 
With    stern    patient    pathos,    while 

time  wears  away, 
In  the  trench  Hooded  through,  in  the 

wind  where  it  waiia, 
In  the  snow  where  it  falls,  in  the  fire 

wliere  it  hails 
Shot  and  shell — link  by  link,  out  of 

hardship  and  pain. 
Toil,  sickness,  endurance,  is  forged 

the  bronze  chain 
Of  those  terrible  siege-lines  I 

No  change  to  that  toil 
Save  the  mine's  sudden  leap  from 

the  treacherous  soil, 
Save  the  midnight  attack,  save  the 

groans  of  the  maimed, 
And    Death's     daily    obolus     due, 

whether  claimed 
By  man  or  by  nature. 

vn. 
Time  passes.     The  dumb, 

Bitter,  snow-bound,  and  sullen  No- 
vember is  come. 

And  its  snows  have  been  bathed  in 
the  blood  of  the  brave  : 

And  many  a  young  heart  has  glutted 
the  grave  : 

And    on   "inkerman    yet   the    wild 
bramble  is  gory, 

And  those  bleak  heights  henceforth 
shall  be  famous  in  story. 

VIII. 

The  moon,   swathed  in  storm,  has 

long  set :  through  the  camp 
No  sound  save  the  sentinel's  slow 

sullen  tramp, 
The  distant  explosion,  the  wild  sleety 

wind. 
That  seems  searching  for  something 

it  never  can  find. 
The  midnight  is  turning  :  the  lamp 

is  uigh  spent  ; 


i^S 


LUCILB, 


And,  vroiindecl  acd  lone,  m  a  deso- 
late tent 

Lies  a  young  British  soldier  whose 
sword  .  .  . 

In  this  place. 

However,  my  Muse  is  compelled  to 
retrace 

Her  precipitous  steps  and  revert  to 
the  past. 

The  shock  which  had  suddenly  shat- 
tered at  last 

Alfred  Vargrave's  fantastical  holiday 
nature. 

Had  sharply  drawn  forth  to  his  full 
size  and  stature 

The  real  man,  concealed  till  that  mo- 
ment beneath 

All  he  yet  had  appeared.     From  the 
gay  broidered  sheath 

Which  a  man   in   his   wrath  flings 
aside,  even  so 

Leaps  the  keen  trenchant  steel  sum- 
moned forth  by  a  blow. 

And  thus  loss  of  fortune  gave  value 
to  life. 

The  wife  gained  a  husband,  the  hus- 
band a  wife, 

In  that  home  whicb.  though  humbled 
and  naiTowed  by  fate, 

Was  enlarged  and  ennobled  by  love. 
Low  tlieir  state. 

But  large  their  possessions. 

Sir  Kidley,  forgiven 

By    those    he    unwittingly  brought 
nearer  heaven 

By  one  fraudulent  act,  than  through 
all  his  sleek  speech 

The  hypocrite  brought  his  own  soul, 
safe  from  reach 

Of  the  law,  died  abroad* 

Cousin  John,  heart  and  hand, 

Purse  and  person,  henceforth  (hon- 
est man  ! )  took  his  stand 

By  Matilda  and  Alfred  ;  guest,  guar- 
dian, and  friend 

Of  the  home  he  both  shared  and  as- 
sured, to  the  end, 

With  his  large  lively  love.     Alfred 
Vargrave  meanwhile 

Paced   fhe  world's  frown,  consoled 
by  hi3  wife's  faithful  smile. 


Late  in  life  he  began  life  in  earnest  ; 

and  still. 
With  the  tranquil  exertion  of  reso- 
lute will. 
Through  long,   and   laborious,   and    \ 

difficult  days,  1 

Out  of  manifold  failure,  by  vv^eari-  J 

some  ways, 
Worked  his  way  through  the  world  ; 

till  at  last  he  began 
(Keconciled  to  the  work  which  man- 
kind claims  from  man). 
After  years  of  unwitnessed,  unwea- 
ried endeavor, 
Tears  impassioned  yet   patient,   to 

realize  ever 
More  clear  on  the  broad  stream  of 

current  opinion 
The  reflex  of  powers  in  himself, — 

tbat  dominion 
Which  the  life  of  one  man,  if  his 

life  be  a  truth, 
May  assert  o'er  the  life  of  mankind. 

Thus,  his  youth 
In  his  manhood  renewed,  fame  and 

fortune  he  won 
Working  only  for  home,  love,  and 

duty. 

One  son 
Matilda  had  borne  him  ;  but  scarce 

had  the  boy, 
With  all  Eton  yet  fresh  in  his  full 

heart's  frank  joy. 
The  darling  of  young  soldier  com- 
rades, just  glanced 
Down  the  glad  dawn  of  manhood  at 

life,  wh.en  it  chanced 
That  a  blight  sharp  and  sudden  wa'D 

breathed  o'er  the  bloom 
Of  his  joyous  and   generous  years, 

and  the  gloom 
Of  a  grief  premature  on  their  fair 

promise  fell  : 
No  light  cloud  like  those  which,  for 

June  to  dispel. 
Captious  April  engenders  ;  but  deep 

as  his  own 
Deep  nature.  Meanwhile,  ere  I  fully 

make  known 
The  cause  of  this  sorrow,  \  track  tfe^ 

eyejitie 


LUC  TIE. 


139 


When  first  a  wild  war-note  through 
England  was  sent, 

lie,  transferring  without  either  to- 
ken or  word, 

To  friend,  parent,  or  comrade,  a  yet 
virgin  sword. 

From  a  holiday  troop,  to  one  bound 
for  the  war, 

Had  marched  forth,  with  eyes  that 
saw  death  in  tlie  star 

Wlience  others  sought  glory.     Thus, 
limiting,  he  fell 

On  the  fed  field  of  Inkerman  ;  found, 
who  can  tell 

By  what  miracle,  breathing,  though 
shattered,  and  borne 

To  the  rear  l)y  his  comrades,  pierc- 
ed, bleeding,  and  torn. 

Where    for   long"  days  and   nights, 
with  the  womid  in  his  side, 

He  lay,  dark. 

IX. 

But    a   wound  deeper  far,  unde- 

scribed, 
In  the  yomig  heart  was  rankling  ; 

foV  there,  of  a  truth, 
In  the  first  earnest  faith  of  a  pure 

pensive  youth, 
A.   love    large'  as     life,    deep    and 

changeless  as  death, 
Lay  enshcaihed  :  and  that  love,  ever 

fretting  its  sheath, 
The  frail  scabbard  of  life  pierced  and 

wore  through  and  through. 
There  are  loves  "in  man's  life  for 

which  time  can  renew 
All  that  time  may  destroy.      Lives 

there  are,  tliough,  in  love, 
Which  cling  to  one  faith,  and  die 

with  it  ;  nor  move, 
Though  earthquakes  may  shatter  the 

shrine. 

"UTienco  or  how 
Love  laid  claim  to  this  young  life,  it 

matters  not  now. 

X. 

0, 13  it  a  phantom  '?  a  dream  of  the 

night  ? 
A  vision  which  fever  hath  fashioned 

to  tJi-rht  ? 


The  wind  wailing  ever,  with  motion 

uncertain, 
Sways  sighingly  there  tlie  drenched 

tent's  tattered  curtain. 
To  and  fro,  up  and  down. 

But  it  is  not  the  wind 
That  is  lifting  it  now  :  and  it  is  not 

the  mind 
That  hath  moulded  that  vision. 

A  pale  woman  enters, 
As  wan  as  the  lamp's  waning  light, 

which  concentres 
Its  dull  glare  upon  her.     With  eyes 

dim  and  dimmer 
There,  all  in  a  slumberous  and  shad- 

ovrj  glimmer. 
The  sufferer  sees  that  still  form  Heat- 
ing on, 
And  feels  faintly  aware  that  he  is 

not  alone. 
She    is    flitting  before    him.      She 

pauses.     She  stands 
By  his  bedside,  all  silent.     She  lays 

her  white  liands 
On  the  brow  of  the  boy.     A  light 

finger  is  pressing 
Softly,  sol'tly  the  sore"  wounds  :  the 

hot  bloo'd-stainsd  dressing 
Slips    from    them.      A    comforting 

quietude  steals 
Through  the  racked  weary  frame  : 

and.  throughout  it,  he  feels 
The  slow  sense  "of  a  merciful,  mild 

neighborhood. 
Something  smooths  the  tossed  pillow. 

Beneath  a  gray  hood 
Of  rough  serge,  two  intense  tender 

eyes  are  bent  o'er  him, 
And  thrill  through  and  through  him. 

The  sweetform  before  him. 
It  is  surely  Death's  angel  Life's  last 

vigil  keeping  ! 
A  soft  voice  says  .  .  .  "Sleep  !" 

And  he  sleeps  :  he  is  sleeping. 


XI. 


He  waked  before  dawn.    Still  the 

vision  is  there  : 
Still  that  pale  woman  moves  not*    A 

mijiisteriug  carq 


I40 


LUCILE. 


Meanwhile  has  been  silently  chaug-  | 

ing  and  clieering 
The  aspect  of  all  things  around  him. 
Kevering 
Some   power  unknown    and   benig- 
nant, lie  blessed 
In   silence  the    sense  of  salvation. 

And  rest 
Having  loosened  the  mind's  tangled 

meshes,  he  faintly- 
Sighed  .  .   .   '"Say  v/hat  thou  art, 

blessed  dream  of  a  saintly 
And  ministering  spirit  !" 

A  whisper  serene 
Slid,  softer  than  silence  .  .  .   ''  The 

Soeur  Seraph ine, 
A  poor  Sister  of  Charity.    Shun  to 

inquire 
Aught  further,  young  soldier.     The 

son  of  thy  sire, 
For  the  sake  of  that  sire,  I  reclaim 

from  the  grave. 
Thou  didst  not  shun  death  :  shun 

not  life.     'Tis  more  brave 
To  live,  than  to  die.     Sleep  I  " 

lie  sleeps  :  he  is  sleeping. 

xn. 

He  wakened  again,  when  the  dawn 

was  just  steeping 
The  skies  with  chill  splendor.     And 

there,  never  flitting. 
Never  Hitting,  that  vision  of  mercy 

was  sitting. 
As  the  dawn  to  the  darkness,  so  life 

seemed  returning 
Slowly,   feebly    within    him.       The 

night-lamp,  yet  burning. 
Made  ghastly  the  glimmering  day- 
break. 

He  said, 
"  If  thou  be  of  the  living,  and  not  of 

the  dead. 
Sweet  minister,  pour  out  yet  further 

the  healing  [revealing 

Of  that  balmy  voice  ;  if  it  may  be. 
Thy  mission  of  mercy  I  whence  art 

thou?" 

"  O  son 
Of  Matilda  and  Alfred,  it  matters 

pot  i    One 


Who  is  not  of  the  living  nor  yet  of 

the  dead  : 
To  thee,  and  to  others,  alive  yet" 

.  .  .  she  said  .  .  . 
"So  long  as  there  liveth  the  poor' 

gift  in  me  'to  thee, 

Of  this  ministration  :  to  them,  and 
Dead  in  all  things  beside.     A  French 

Nun,  whose  vocation 
Is  now  by  this  bedside.     A  nun  hath 

no  nation. 
Wherever  man    suffers  or    woman 

may  soothe. 
There  her  land !  there  her  kindred !  " 
Siie  bent  down  to  smooth 
The  hot  pillow  ;   and   added   .    .   . 

''  Yet  more  than  another 
Is  thy  life  dear  to  me.      For  thy 

father,  thy  mother, 
I  knew  them, — I  know  them." 

"  O  can  it  be  ?  you  ! 
My  dearest  dear  father  !  my  mother! 

you  knew, 
You  know  them  ?" 

She  bowed,  half  averting,  her  head 
In  silence. 

He  brokenly,  timidly  said, 
"  Do  they  know  I  am  thus  ?  " 
"Uush!"  .  .  .  she  smiled,  as  she 

From  her  bosom  two  letters  ;  and- 
ean it  be  true  ? 
That  beloved  and  familiar  writing  ! 
He  burst 
Into  tears  .  .  .  "  My  poor  mother — 

my  father  !  ;iie  worst 
Will  have  readied  them  !  " 

••'  No,  no  !"  she  exclaimed  with  a 

smile, 
''  They  know  you  are  living  ;  they 

know  that  meanwhile 
I  am  watching  beside  you.     Young 

soldier,  weep  not  !" 
But  still  on  the  nun's  nursing  bosom, 

tiie  hot 
Fevered  brow  cf  the  boy  weeping 

wildiy  is  pressed. 
There,  at  last,  the  young  heart  sobs 

itself  into  rest  : 
And  he  hears,  as  it  were  between^ 

smiling  -diiix  weeping. 


LUCILR. 


141 


The  calui  voice  say  .  .  .  "Sleep  I" 
Aud  be  sleeps,  he  is  sleeping. 


And    day   followed    day.    And,  as 
wave  follows  wave, 

With  the  tide,  day  by  day,  life,  reis- 
suing, drave 

Through  that  young  hardy  frame 
novel  currents  of  health. 

Yet  some  strange  obstruction,  which 
life's  seli'by  stealth 

Seemed  to  cherish,   impeded  life's 
progress.     And  still 

A  feebleness,  less  of  the  frame  than 
the  will. 

Clung  about  the  sick  man  :  hid  and 
harbored  within 

The  sad  hollow  eyes  :  pinched  the 
cheek  pale  and  thin  : 

And  clothed  the  wan  lingers  with 
languor. 

And  there, 

Day  by  day,  niglit  by  night,  unre- 
mitting in  care, 

IJnv/eaned  in  watching,  so  cheerful 
of  mien. 

And  so  gentle  of  hand,  sat  the  Soeur 
Seraphine  ! 

XIV. 

A  strange  woman  truly  !  not  young  ; 

yet  her  face, 
"Wan  and  worn,  as  it  was,  bore  about 

It  the  trace 
Of  a  beauty  whioh  time  could  not 

ruin.     For  tiie  whole 
Quiet  cheek,  youth's  lost  bloom  left 

transparent,  the  soul 
Seemed  to  lill  with  its  own  light,  like 

some  sunny  fountain 
Everlastingly  fed  from  far  off  in  the 

mountain 
That  pours,  in  a  garden  deserted,  its 

sti-eams, 
And  all  the  more  lovely  for  loneli- 
ness seems. 
So  that,   watching    that    face,   you 

would  scarce  pause  to  guess 
The  years  which  its  calm  carev/orn 
^  linfea  might  express, 


Feeling  only  what  suffering  with 
these  must  have  passed 

To  have  perfected  there  so  much 
sweetness  at  last. 

XV. 

Thus,   one  bronzeu  evening,  when 

day  had  put  out 
His  brief  thrifty  fires,  and  the  wind 

was  about. 
The  nun,  watchful  still  by  the  boy, 

on  his  own 
Laid  a  firm  quiet  hand,  and  the  deep 

tender  tone 
Of  her  voice  moved  the  silence. 

She  said  .  .  .  '"  I  have  healed 
These  wounds  of  the  body.    Why 

hast  thou  concealed. 
Young  soldier,  that  yet  open  wound 

""in  the  heart  ? 
W^ilt  thou  trust  no  hand  near  it  ?  " 

He  winced,  with  a  start. 
As  of  one  that  is  suddenly  touched 

on  the  spot 
From    which    every  nerve    derives 

suffering. 

''What? 
Lies  my  heart,  then,  so  bare  ?"  he 

moaned  bitterly. 

''Nay," 
With    compassionate    accents    she 

hastened  to  say, 
"  Do  you  think  that  these  eyes  are 

with  sorrow,  young  man, 
So  all  unfamiliar,  indeed,  as  to  scan 
Her  features,  yet  know  them  not  ? 

"  O,  was  it  spoken, 
'  Go  ye  forth,  heal  the  sick,  lift  the 

low,  hind  the  broken  ! ' 
Of  the  body  alone  ?    Is  our  mission, 

then,  done. 
When  we  leave  the  bruised  hearts,  if 

we  bind  the  bruised  bone  ! 
Nay,  is  not  the  mission  of  mercy 

twofold  ? 
Whence  twofold,  perchance,  are  the 

powers,  that  we  hold 
To  fulfil  it,  of  Heaven  !  For  Heaven 

doth  still 
To  us.  Sisters,  it  may  he,  who  seei: 

it,  send  Bkill 


Ti2 


LUCILB. 


Won  from  long  intercourse  with  af- 
fliction, and  art 
Helped  of  Heaven,  to  bind  up  the 

broken  of  heart. 
Trust   to    me!"      (His  two  feeble 

hands  in  her  own 
She  drew  gently. )    '*  Trust  to  me  ! " 

(she  said,  with  soft  tone)  : 
"  I  am  not  so  dead  in  remembrance 

to  all 
S  have  died  to  in  this  world,  but 

what  I  recall  [trial , 

Enongh  of  its  sorrow,  enough  of  its 
To  grieve  for  both, — save  from  both 

haply  !     The  dial 
Receives    many    shades,   and    each 

points  to  the  sim. 
The  shadows  are  many,  the  sunlight 

is  one. 
Life's  sorrows  still  fluctuate  :  God's 

love  does  not. 
And  His  love  is  unchanged,  when  it 

changes  our  lot. 
Looking  up  to  this  light,  which  is 

common  to  all, 
And    down   to    these    shadows,   on 

each  side,  that  fall 
In  time's  silent  circle,  so  various  for 

each, 
Is  it  nothing  to  know  that  they  never 

can  reach 
So  far,  but  what  light  lies  beyond 

them  forever  ? 
Trust  to  me  !    O,  if  in  this  hour  I 

endeavor 
To  trace  the  shade  creeping  across 

the  young  life 
Which,  in   prayer  till  this  hour.  I 

have  watched  through  its  strife 
With  the  shadow  of  death,  'tis  with 

this  faith  alone. 
That,  in  tracing  the  shade,  I  shall 

find  out  the  sun. 
Trust  tome  !" 
She    paused  :    he    was    weeping. 

Small  need 
Of  added  appeal,  or  entreaty,  indeed. 
Had  those  gentle  accents  to  win  from 

his  pale 
And  parched,  trembling  lips,  as  it 

rose,  the  brief  tale 


Of  a  life's  early  sorrow.    The  stoT'! 

is  old, 
Amd  in  words  few  as  may  be  sha  i 

straightway  be  told. 


A  few  years  ago,  ere  the  fair  form  o ; 

Peace 
Was  driven  from  Europe,  a  youn;|| 

girl — tiie  niece 


Of  a  French  noble,  leaving  an  ol( 

Norman  pile 
By  the  v/ild  northern  seas,  came  t( 

dwell  for  a  while 
With  a  iady  allied  to  her  race, — ai  [' 

old  dame 
Of  a  threefold  legitimate  virtue,  and  F 

name. 
In  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain. 

Upon  thaffair  child, 
From    childhood,    nor    father    norr> 

mother  had  smiled. 
One  uncle  their  place  in  her  life  had 

supplied, 
And  their  place  in  her  heart  :  she' 

had  grown  at  his  side, 
And  under  Jiis  roof-tree,  and  in  hisv 

regard. 
From  childhood  to  girlhood. 

This  fair  orphan  ward 
Seemed    the    sole    liuman  creature 

that  lived  in  the  heart 
Of  that  stern  rigid  man,  or  whose 

smile  could  impart 
One    ray  of    response  to  the  eyes 

which,  above  , 

Her   fair    infant    forehead,    looked  1 1^ 

down  with  a  love 
That    seemed   almost  stern,   so  in- 
tense was  its  chill 
Lofty  stillness,  like  sunlight  on  some  •? 

lonely  hill  J 

Which  is  colder  and  stiller  than  sun-    I 

light  elsewhere. 

Grass  grew  in  the  court-yard  ;   the 

chambers  were  bare 
In  that  ancient  mansion  ;  when  first 

the  stern  tread 
Of  its  owner  awakened  their  echoes 

long  dead  \ 


LUCILE, 


143 


Bringing  with  him  this  infant  (the 

child  of  a  brother), 
Whom,  dying,  tlie  hands  of  a  deso- 
late mother 
Had  placed  ou  his  bosom.     'Twas 

said— right  or  wrong — 
That,  in  the  lone  mansion,  left  teu- 

antless  long, 
To  which,  as  a  stranger,  its  lord  now 

returned, 
In  years  yet  recalled,  through  loud 

midnights  had  burned 
The  light  o"f  wild  orgies.     Be  that 

false  or  true. 
Slow  and  sad  was  the  footstep  which 

now  wandered  through 
Those  desolate  chambers  ;  and  calm 

and  severe 
Was  the  life  of  their  inmate. 

Men  now  saw  appear 
Every  morn  at  the  mass  that  firm 

sorrowful  face, 
Which  seemed  to  lock  up  in  a  cold 

iron  case 
Tears  hardened  to  crystal.  Yet  harsh 

if  he  were. 
His  severity  seemed  to  be  trebly  se- 
vere 
In  the  rule  of  his  own  rigid  life, 

which,  at  least, 
Was  benignant  to  others.     The  poor 

parish  priest. 
Who  lived  on  his  largess,  his  piety 

praised. 
The  peasant  was  fed,  and  the  chapel 

was  raised. 
And  the  cottage  was  built,   by  his 

liberal  hand. 
Yet  he  seemed  in  the  midst  of  his 

good  deeds  to  stand 
A  lone,  and  unloved,  and  unlovable 

man. 
There    appeared    some    inscrutable 

flaw  \\\  the  plan 
Ot'  his  life,  that  love  failed  to  pass 

over. 

Tliat  child 
Alone  did  not  fear  him,  nor  shrink 

from  him  ;  smiled 
I'o  iu3  frown,  am!  ilispelled  it. 

The  sweet  sportive  elf 


Seemed  the  type  of  some  joy  lost, 
and  missed,  in  himself. 

Ever  welcoine  he  suffered  her  glad 
face  to  glide 

In  on  hours  when  to  others  his  door 
was  denied  : 

And  many  a  time  with  a  mute  moody 
look 

He  would  watch  her  at  prattle  and 
play,  like  a  broo^ 

Whose  babble  disturbs  not  the  quiet- 
est spot, 

But  soothes  us  because  we  need  an- 
swer it  not. 

But  few  years  had  passed  o'er  that 
childhood  before 

A  change  came  among  them.  A  let- 
ter, which  bore 

Sudden  consequence  with  it,  one 
morning  was  placed 

In  the  hands  of  the  lord  of  the  cha- 
teau,    lie  paced 

To  and  fro  in  his  chamber  a  whole 
night  alone 

After  reading  tliat  letter.  At  dawn 
he  was  gone. 

Weeks  passed.  ^Vhen  he  came  back 
again  he  returned 

With  a  tall  ancient  dame,  from 
whose  lips  the  child  learned 

That  they  were  of  the  same  race  and 
name.     With  a  face 

Sad  and  anxious,  to  this  withered 
stock  of  the  race 

He  confitled  the  orphan  and  left 
them  alone 

In  the  lonely  old  house. 

In  a  few  days  'twas  known, 

To  the  angry  sm-prise  of  half  Paris, 
that  one 

Of  the  chiefs  of  that  party  which, 
still  clinging  on 

To  the  banner  that  bears  the  white 
lilies  of  France, 

Will  fight  'neath  no  other,  nor  yet 
for  the  chance 

Of  restoring  their  own,  had  re- 
nounced the  watchword 

And  the  creed  of  his  youth  in  un* 
sheathing  his  sword 


J44 


LUC  TLB. 


For  a  Fatherland  fathered  no  more 

(such  is  fate  !) 
By  legitimate  parents. 

And  meanwhile,  elate 
And  in  no  wise  distiu-bed  by  what 

Paris  might  say, 
The  new  soldier  thus  wrote  to  a  friend 

far  away  : — 
**  To  tlie  life  of  inaction  farewell ! 

After  all. 
Creeds  the  oldest  may  crumble,  and 

dynasties  fall. 
But  the  sole  grand  Legitimacy  will 

endure, 
In  whatever  makes  death  noble,  life 

strong  and  pure. 
Freedom  !  action  I  .  .  .  the  desert  to 

breathe  in, — the  lance 
Of  the  Arab  to  follow  !    I  go  !    Vite 

Ici  France  !  " 


henceforth,  as  years  fled, 
'Twixt  the    child   and  the  soldier. 

The  two  women  led 
Lone  lives  in  the  lone  house.     Mean- 
while the  child  grew 
Into  girlhood  ;  and,  like  a  sunbeam, 

sliding  through 
Iler  green  quiet  years,  changed  by 

gentle  degrees 
To  the  loveliest  vision  of  youth  a 

youtli  sees 
In  his  loveliest  fancies  :  as  pure  as  a 

pearl, 
And  as  perfect  :  a  noble  and  inno- 

cerit  girl. 
With  eighteen  sweet  smnmers  dis- 
solved in  the  light 
Of  her  lovely  and  lovable  eyes,  soft 

and  bright ! 
Then    lier    guardian  wrote    to    the 

dame,  .  .  .  ''  Let  Constance 
Go  with  you  to  Paris.     I  trust  that 

in  France 
I  may  be  ere  the  close  of  the  year. 

I  confide 
My  life's  treasure  to  you.     Let  her 

see.  at  your  side. 
The  world  which  we  live  in." 

To  Paris  then  came 


Constknce  to  abide  witn    that  old 

stately  dame 
In  that  old  stately  Faubourg. 

The  young  Englishman 
Thus  met  her.     'Twas  there  their 

acquaintance  began. 
There  it  closed.     That  old  miracle— 

Love-at-first-sight — 
Needs  no  explanations.     The  heart 

reads  aright 
Its  destiny  sometimes.     His  love  nei- 
ther chidden 
Nor  checked,  the  young  soldier  was 

graciously  bidden 
An  habitual  guest  to  that  house  by 

the  dame. 
His  own  candid  graces,  the  world- 
honored  name 
Of  his  father  (in  him  not  dishonored ) 

were  both  [ing  loath. 

Fair  titles  to  favor.     His  love,  noth- 
The  old  lady  observed,  was  returned 

by  Constance. 
And  as  the  child's  uncle  his  absence 

from  France 
Yet  prolonged,  she  (thus  easing  long 

self-gratulation) 
Wrote  to  him  a  lengthened  and  mov- 
ing narration 
Of  the  graces  and  gifts  of  the  young 

English  wooer  : 
His  father's  fair  fame  ;  the  boy's 

deference  to  her  ; 
His  love  for  Constance, — unaffected, 

sincere  ; 
And  the  girl's  love  for  him,  read  by 

her  in  those  clear 
Limpid  eyes  ;  then  the  pleasure  with 

which  she  awaited 
Her  cousin's  approval  of  all  she  had 

stated. 

At  length  from  that  cousin  an  an- 
swer »there  came. 

Brief,  stern  ;  such  as  stunned  and 
astonished  the  dame. 

"  Let  Constknce  leave  Paris  with  you 

on  the  day 
You  receive  this.     Until  my  return 

she  may  stay 


LUCILE. 


M5 


At  her  convent  awliile.     If  my  niece 

Tvislies  ever 
To  behold  me  again,  understand,  she 

will  never 
Wed  that  man. 
**  You  have  broken  faith  "with  me. 

Farewell  I " 

No  appeal  from  that  sentence. 

It  needs  not  to  tell 
The  tears  of  Constance,  nor  the  grief 

of  ber  lover  : 
The  dream  they  had  laid  out  their 

lives  in  was  over. 
Bravely  strove  the  yoimg  soldier  to 

look  in  the  face 
Of   a    life,   where    invisible    hands 

seemed  to  trace 
O'er  the  tbresliold,  these  words  .  .  . 

"  Hope  no  more  I  " 

Unreturned 
Had  his  love  been,  the  strong  manful 

heart  would  have  spurned 
That  weakness  which  suffers  a  wo- 
man to  lie 
At  the  roots  of  man's  life,  like  a 

canker,  and  dry 
And  wither  the  sap  of  life's  purpose. 

But  there 
Lay  the  bitterer  part  of  the  pain  I 

Could  he  dare 
To  forget  he  was  loved  ?   that  he 

grieved  not  alone  ? 
Hecording  a  love  that  drew  sorrow 

upon 
The  woman   he  loved,  for  himself 

dare  he  seek 
Surcease  to  that  sorrow,  which  thus 

held  him  weak, 
Beat  him  down,  and  destroyed  him  ? 
News  reached  him  indeed, 
Through  a  comrade,   who  brought 

him  a  letter  to  read 
From  the  dame  who   had  care  of 

Constance  (it  was  one 
To  whom,  when  at  Paris,  the  boy 

had  been  known, 
A  Frenchman,  and  friend  of  the  Fau- 
bourg), which  said 
That  Constance,  although  never  a 

murmur  betrayed 


What  shf»  suffered,  in  silence  grew 

paler  each  day. 
And   seemed  visibly   drooping   and 

dying  aw^ay. 
It  was  then  he  sought  death. 

XVII. 

Thus  the  tale  ends.     'Twas  told 
With  such  broken,  passionate  words, 

as  unfold 
In  glimpses    alone,   a  coiled   gi'ief. 

Tb rough  each  pause 
Of   its    fitful  recital,   in  raw  gusty 

flaws, 
The  rain  shook  the  canvas,  anheed- 

ed  ;  aloof. 
And      unheeded,     the     night-wind 

around  the  tent-roof 
At  intervals  wirbled.     And  when  all 

was  said, 
The  sick  man,  exhausted,  drooped 

backward  his  liead. 
And  fell  into  a  feverish  slumber. 

Long  while 
Sat  the  Soeur  Seraphine,  in    deep 

thought.     The  still  smile 
That  was  wont,  angel-wise,  to  inhab- 
it her  face 
And  make  it  like  heaven,  was  fled 

from  its  place 
In  her  eyes,  on  her  lips  ;  and  a  deep 

sadness  there 
Seemed  to  darken  the  lines  of  long 

sorrow  and  care. 
As  low  to  herself  she  sighed  .  .  . 

''Hatii  it,  Eugene, 
Been  so  long,  then,  the  struggle  ?  .  .  . 

and  yet,  all  in  vain  ! 
Nay,  not    all    in  vaiji  !    Shall   the 

world  gain  a  man, 
And  yet  Heaven  lose  a  soul  ?    Have 

I  done  all  I  can? 
Soul  to  soul,  did  he  say?    Soul  to 

soul,  be  it  so  ! 
And  then,— soul  of  mine,  whither  ? 

whither  ?  " 

svin. 

Large,  slow, 
Silent  tears  in  those  deep  eyes  as- 
cended, and  fell. 


146 


LUC  I  LB, 


''Here,  at  ieati,  i  have  failed  not" 

.  .  .  she  mused  .  .  .  ''this  is 

well!" 
She  drew  from  her  bosom  two  letters. 
In  one, 
A  mother's  heart,  wild  with  alarm 

for  her  son, 
Breathed  bitterly  forth  its  despairing 

appeal. 
"  The  pledge  of  a  love  owed  to  thee, 

O  Lucile  I 
The  hope  of  a  home  saved  by  thee, — 

of  a  heart 
Which  hath  never  since  then  (thrice 

endeared  as  thou  art !) 
Ceased  to  bless  thee,  to  pray  for  thee, 

save  ! .  .  .  save  my  son  ! 
And  if  not"  .  .  .  the  letter  went  bro- 
kenly on, 
"  Heaven  help  us  ! " 

Then  followed,  from  Alfred,  a  few 
Blotted     heart-broken     pages.     He 

mournfully  drew. 
With  pathos,  the    picture  of   that 

earnest  youth, 
So  unlike  his  own  :  how  in  beauty 

and  truth 
He  had    nurtured  that  nature,   so 

simple  and  brave  ! 
And  how  he  had  striven  his  son's 

youth  to  save 
From  the  errors  so  sadly  redeemed 

in  his  own. 
And  so  deeply  repented  :  how  thus, 

in  that  son. 
In  whose  youth  he  had  garnered  his 

age,  he  had  seemed 
To  be  blessed  by  a  pledge  that  the 

past  was  redeemed. 
And  forgiven.     He  bitterly  went  on 

to  speak 
Of  the  boy's  baffled  love  ;  in  which 

fate  seemed  to  break 
Unawares  on  his  dreams  with  re- 
tributive pain. 
And  the  ghosts  of  the  past  rose  to 

scourge  back  again 
The  hopes  of  the  future.     To  sue  for 

consent 
Pride  forbade  :  and  the  hope  his  old 

foe  might  relent 


Experience  rejected  .   .  .  ''  My  life 

for  the  boy's !  " 
(He  exclaimed) ;  '*  for  I  die  with  my 

son,  if  he  dies  ! 
Lucile !  Heaven  bless  you  for  all  you 

have  done ! 
Save  him,  save  him,  Lucilo!  save 

my  son  !  save  my  son  I " 
XIX. 

*'Ay!"  murmured  the  Sceur  Sera- 

phine  ..."  heart  to  heart ! 
There,  at  least,  I  have  failed  not  1 

Fulfilled  is  my  part  ? 
Accomplished  my  mission  ?  One  act 

crowns  the  whole. 
Do  I  linger  ?    Nay,  be  it  so,  then  ! 

.  .  .  Soul  to  soul  !" 
She  knelt  down,  and  prayed.    Still 

the  boy  slumbered  on. 
Dawn  broke.     The  pale  nun  from 

the  bedside  was  gone. 

XX. 

Meanwhile,  'mid  his  aides-de-camp> 

busily  bent 
O'er  the  daily  reports,  in  his  well- 
ordered  tent 
There    sits    a    French    General, — 

bronzed  by  the  sun 
And  seared  by  the  sands  of  Algeria. 

One 
Who  forth  from  the  wars  of  the  wild 

Kabylee 
Had  strangely  and  rapidly  risen  to 

be 
The  idol,  the  darling,  the  dream,  and 

the  star 
Of  the  younger  French  chivalry: 

daring  in  war, 
And  wary  in  council.    He  entered, 

indeed. 
Late    in    life   (and    discarding    his 

Bourbonite  creed) 
The  Army  of  France  :  and  had  risen, 

in  part. 
From  a  singular  aptitude  proved  for 

the  art 
Of  that  wild  desert  warfare  of  am- 
bush, surprise, 
And  stratagem,  which  to  the  French 

camp  supplies 


LUCILE. 


14} 


its  subtlest  intelligence  ;  partly  from 

chance  ; 
Partly,  too,  from  a  name  and  posi- 
tion which  France 
Was    proud    to    put  forward  ;    but 

mainly,  in  fact, 
From  the  prudence  to  plan,  and  the 

daring  to  act. 
In  frequent  emergencies  startlingly 

shown. 
To  the  rank  which  he  now  held, — 

intrepidly  won 
With  many  a  wound,  trenched  in 

many  a  scar, 
From  fierce  Milianah  and  Sidi-Sakh- 

dar. 


All  within,  and  without,  that  warm 
tent  seems  to  bear 

Smiling  token  of  provident  order  and 
care. 

All  about,  a  well-fed,  well-clad  sol- 
diery stands 

In  groups  round  the  music  of  mirth- 
breathing  bands. 

In  and  out  of  the  tent,  all  day  long, 
to  and  fro. 

The  messengers  come,  and  the  mes- 
sengers go, 

Upon  missions  of  mercy,  or  errands 
of  toil  : 

To  report  how  the  sapper  contends 
with  the  soil 

In  the  terrible  trench,  how  the  sick 
man  is  faring 

In  the  hospital  tent  :  and,  combin- 
ing, comparing, 

Constructing,    within     moves     the 
brain  of  one  man, 

Moving  all. 
He  is  bending  his  brow  o'er  some 
plan 

For  the  hospital  service,  wise,  skil- 
ful, humane. 

The  ofiQcer  standing  beside  him  is 
fain 

To    refer    to    the    angel    solicitous 
cares 

O*  the  Sisters  of  Charity  :  one  he 
declares 


To  be  known  through  the  camp  as  a 

seraph  of  grace  : 
He  has  seen,  all  have  seen  her  in- 
deed, in  each  place 
Where  suffering  is  seen,  silent,  ac 

tive, — the  Soeiu-  .  .  . 
Soeur  .  .  .  how  do  they  call  her  ? 

"Ay,  truly,  of  her 
I  have  heard  much,"  the  General, 

musing,  replies  ; 
"And  we  owe  her  already  (unless 

rumor  lies) 
The  lives  of  not  few  of  our  bravest. 

You  mean ... 
Ay,  how  do  they  call  her  ?  .  .  .   the 

Soeur — Seraphine, 
(Is  it  not  so  ?  ).  I  rarely  forget  names 

once  heard." 

"  Yes  ;  the  Soeur  Seraphine.     Her  1 

meant." 

"  On  my  word, 
I  have  much  wished  to  see  her.     1 

fancy  I  trace. 
In  some  facts  traced  to  her,  some- 
thing more  than  the  grace 
Of    an    angel  :    I   mean    an  acute 

human  mind, 
Ingenious,  constructive,  intelligent. 

Find 
And,  if  possible,  let  her  come  to  me. 

We  shall, 
I  think,  aid  each  other. 

"  Oui,  mon  G€n^ral  ; 
I  believe  she  has  lately  obtained  the 

permission 
To  tend  some  sick  man  in  the  Second 

Division 
Of  our  Ally  •  they  say  a  relation. 

"Ay,  so? 
A  relation?" 

"  'Tis  said  so." 
"  The  name  do  you  know  ?  " 
'^  Non,  mon  Gen^raV 

While  they  spoke  yet,  there  went 
A  murmur  and  stir  round  the  door 

of  the  tent. 
"A  Sister  of  Charity  craves,  in  a 

case 
Of  urgent  and  serious  importance, 

the  grace 


1^8 


LUCILS. 


Of  brief   private  speech  with   the 

General  there. 
Will  the  General  speak  with  her?" 

"  Bid  her  declare 
Her  mission." 
''She  will  not.     She  craves  to  be 
seen 
And  be  heard." 

"  Well,  her  name  then  ?  " 

"  The  Soeur  Seraphine." 
"  Clear  the  tent.     She  may  enter." 

XXII. 

The  tent  has  been  cleared. 
The  chieftain  stroked  moodily  somc- 

wliat  his  beard, 
A  sable  long  silvered  :  and  pressed 

down  his  brow 
On  his  hand,  heavy  veined.     All  his 

countenance,  now 
Unwitnessed,  at  once  fell  dejected, 

and  di-eary. 
As  a  curtain  let  i'all  by  a  hand  that's 

grown  weary, 
Into  puckers  and  folds.     From  his 

lips,  imrepressed, 
Steals    th'    impatient    quick    sigh, 

which  reveals  in  man's  breast 
A  conflict  concealed,  an  experience 

at  strife 
With  itself,— the  vexed  heart's  pass- 
ing protest  on  life. 
He  tm-ned  to  his  papers.     He  heard 

the  liglit  tread 
Of  a  faint  foot  behind  him  :  and, 

lifting  his  head, 
Said,  "Sit,  Holy  Sister!  your  worth 

is  well  known 
To  the  hearts  of  our  soldiers  ;  nor 

less  to  my  own. 
I  have  much  wished  to  see  you.     I 

owe  you  some  thanks  : 
In  the  name  of  all  those  you  have 

saved  to  our  ranks 
I  record  them.  Sit  !  Now  then,  your 

mission  ?  " 

The  nun 
Paused  silent.      The  General  eyed 

her  anon 
More    keenly.      His    aspect    grew 

troubled.    A  change 


Darkened    over  his    features.      He 

muttered    ....    "Strange! 

strange  ! 
Any  face  should  so  strongly  remind 

me  of  lierl 
Fool !  again  tlie  delirium,  the  dream! 

does  it  stir  ? 
Does  it  move  as  of  old  ?    Psha  ! 

"  Sit,  Sister  !  I  wait 
Your  answer,  my  time  halts  but  hur- 
riedly.    State 
The  cause  why  you  seek  me  ?" 

"The  cause  ?  ay,  the  cause  !" 
She  vaguely  repeated.     Then,  after 

a  pause, — 
As    one    avIio,    awaked    unawares, 

Avould  put  back 
The  sleep  that  forever  returns  in  the 

track 
Of  dreams  which,  though  scared  and 

dispersed,  not  the  less 
Settle  back  to  faint  eyelids  that  yield 

'neath  their  sli-ess. 
Like  doves  to  a  penthouse, — a  move- 
ment she  made. 
Less  toward  him  than  away  from 

herself  ;  drooped  her  head 
And  folded  her  hands  on  her  bosom: 

long,  spare, 
Fatigued,  mournful  hands  !    Not  a 

stream  of  stray  hair 
Escaped  tlie  pale  bands  \  scarce  more 

pale  than  the  face 
Which  they  bound  and  locked  up  in 

a  rigid  white  case. 
She  fixed  her  eyes  on  him.    There 

crept  a  vague  awe 
O'er  his  sense,  such  as  ghosts  cast. 

"  Eugene  de  Luvois, 
The  cause  which  recalls  me  again  to 

j^our  side 
Is  a  promise  that  rests  mifulfilled,'* 

she  replied. 
"  I  come  to  fulfil  it." 

He  sprang  from  the  place 
Where  he  sat,  pressed  his  hand,  as 

in  doubt,  o'er  his  face  ; 
And,  cautiously  feeling  each  step  o'er 

the  ground 
That  he  trod  on  (as  one  who  walks 

fearing  the  sound 


LUC  I  LB. 


Of  Ms  footstep  may  startle  and  scare 

out  of  sight 
Some  strange  sleeping  creatTire  on 

which  he  would  light 
Unawares),  crept  towards  her  ;  one 

heavy  hand  laid 
On  her  shoulder  in  silence  ;  bent  o'er 

her  his  head, 
Searched  her  face  with  a  long  look 

of  troubled  appeal 
Against  doubt  ;  staggered  barkward, 

and  murmured  .  .  .  "Lucile! 
Thus  we  meet  then  ?  .  .  .  here  !  .  . 

thus?" 

"  Soul  to  soul,  ay,  Eugene, 
As  I  pledged  you  my  word  that  we 

should  meet  again. 
Dead,  ..."  she  murmured,  "  long 

dead  I    all  that  lived  in  our 

lives, — 
Thine  and  mine, — saving  that  which 

ev'n  hfe's  self  survives, 
The  soul  !    'Tis  my  soul  seeks  thine 

own.     What  may  reach 
From  my  life  to  thy  life  (so  wide 

each  from  each  ! ) 
Save  the  soul  to  the  soul  ?    To  the 

soul  I  would  speak. 
May  I  do  so?" 
He  said  (worked  and  white  was  his 

check 
As  he  raised  it),  "  Speak  to  me  !" 

Deep,  tender,  serene, 
And  sad  was  the  gaze  which  the 

Soeur  Seraphiue 
Held  on  him.     She  spoke. 

XXIII. 

As  some  minstrel  may  fling, 
Preluding  the  music  yet  mute  in  each 

string, 
A   swift  hand  athwart  the  hushed 

heart  of  the  whole. 
Seeking  which  note  most  fitly  may 

first  move  the  soul  ; 
And,   leaving  untroubled  the  deep 

chords  below, 
Move  pathetic  in  numbers  remote  ;— 

even  so 
The  voice  which  was  moving  the 

heart  of  that  man 


Far  away  from  its  yet  voiceless  pur- 
pose began, 

Far  away  in  the  pathos  remote  of 
the  past  ; 

Until,  through  her  words,  rose  be- 
fore him,  at  last. 

Bright  and  dark  in  their  beauty,  the 
hopes  that  were  gone 

Unaccomplished  from  life. 

He  was  mute. 

XXIV. 

She  went  on. 

And  still  further  down  the  dim  pact 
did  she  lead 

Each  yielding  remembrance,  far,  far 
off,  to  feed 

'Mid  the  pastm-es  of  youth,  in  the 
twilight  of  hope. 

And  the    valleys    of    boyhood,   the 
fresh-flowered  slope 

Of  life's  dawning  land  ! 

'Tis  the  heart  of  a  boy, 

With  its  indistinct,  passionate  pre- 
science of  joy  ! 

The  unproved  desire, — the  unaimed 
aspiration, — 

The  deep  conscious  life  that  fore- 
stalls consummation  ; 

With  ever   a  flitting    delight,— one 
arm's  length 

In  advance  of  the  august  inward  im- 
pulse. 

The  strength 

Of  the  spirit  which  troubles  the  seed 
in  the  sand 

With  the  birth  of  the  palm-tree  ! 
Let  ages  expand 

The  glorious  creatm-e  !    The  ages  lie 
"  shut 

(Safe,  see  ! )  in  the  seed,  at  time's 
signal  to  put 

Forth  their  beauty  and  power,  leaf 
by  leaf,  layer  on  layer, 

Till  the  palm  strikes  the  sim,  and 
stands  broad  in  blue  air. 

So  the  palm  in  the  palm-seed  !  so, 
slowly — so,  wroiight 

Year  by  year  unperceived,  hope  on 
hope,  thought  by  thought, 

Trace  the  growth  of  the  man  fromita 
germ  iu  the  boy. 


ISO 


I.UCTLE. 


Ah,  but  Nature,  that  nurtures,  may 

also  destroy  ! 
Charm  the  wind  and  the  sun,  lest 

some  chance  intervene  ! 
While  the  leaf's  in  the  bud,  while 

the  stem's  in  the  green, 
A  light  bird  bends  thebi-anch,alight 

breeze  breaks  the  bough, 
Which,  if  spared  by  the  light  breeze, 

the  light  bird,  may  grow 
To  baffle  the  tempest,  and  rock  the 

high  nest, 
And  take  both  the  bird  and  the  breeze 

to  its  breast. 
Shall  we  save  a  whole  forest  in  spar- 
ing one  seed  ? 
Save  the  man  in  the  boy  ?  in  the 

thought  save  the  deed  ? 
Let  the  whirlwind  uproot  the  grown 

tree,  if  it  can  ! 
Save  the  seed  from  the  north-wind. 

So  let  the  grown  man 
Face  out  fate.    Spare  the  man-seed 

in  youth. 

He  was  dmnb. 
She  went  one  step  fuilher. 


Lo  !  manhood  is  come. 
And  love,  the  wild  song-bird,  hath 

flown  to  the  tree. 
And    the    whirhvind    comes    after. 

Now  prove  we,  and  see  : 
What  shade  from  the  leaf  ?    what 

support  from  the  branch  ? 
Spreads  the   leaf   broad   and    fair  ? 

holds  the    bough  strong  and 

staunch  ? 
There,  he  saw  himself, — dark,  as  he 

stood  on  that  night, 
The  last  when  they  met  and  they 

parted  :  a  sight 
For  heaven  to  niom-n  o'er,  for  hell  to 

rejoice  ! 
An  ineffable  tenderness  troubled  her 

voice  ; 
It  grew  weak,  and  a  sigh  broke  it 

through. 

Then  he  said 
(Never  looking  at  her,  never  lifting 

Ills  head, 


As  though,   at  his  feet,  there  lay  , 

visibly  hurled  i 

Those  fragments ) , "  It  was  not  a  love,  ' 

'twas  a  world,  i 

'Twas  a  life  that  lay  ruined,  Lucile ! "  , 

XXVI. 

She  went  on. 
"So  be    it  !     Perish    Babel,   arise      I 

Babylon  !  ' 

From  ruins  like  these  rise  the  fanes       ' 

that  shall  last. 
And  to  build  up  the  future  heaven 

shatters  the  past." 
"  Ay,"  he  moodily  murmured,  "and 

who  cares  to  scan 
The  heart's  perished    world,  if  th& 

world  gains  a  man  ? 
From  the  past  to  the  present,  though 

late,  I  appeal  ; 
To  the  nun  Seraphine,  from  the  wo- 
man Lucile  !" 


Lucile  !  .  .  .  the   old    name,  —  the 
old  self  !  silenced  long  : 

Heard  once  more  !  felt  once  more  ! 
As  some  soul  to  the  throng 

Of  invisible  spirits  admitted,  baptized 

By  death  to  a  new  name  and  nature, 
— surprised 

'Mid  the  songs  of  the  seraphs,  hears 
faintly,  and  far. 

Some  voice  fi'om  the  earth,  left  be- 
low a  dim  star. 

Calling  to  her  forlornly  ;  and  (sad- 
dening the  psalms 

Of  the  angels,  and  piercing  the  Para- 
dise palms  !) 

The  name  borne  'mid  earthly  be- 
loveds on  earth 

Sighed  above  some  lone  grave  in  the 
land  of  her  birth  ; — 

So  that  one  word  .  .  .  Lucile  !  .  .  . 
stirred  the  Sojur  Seraphine, 

For  a  moment.    Anon  she  resumed 
her  serene 

And  concentrated  calm. 

"liet  the  Nun,  then,  retrace 

The  life  of  the  Soldier  !"  ...  she 
said,  with  a  face 


LUCILE. 


mi 


That  glowtd,  gladdening  her  words. 
"  To  the  present  I  come  : 

Leave  the  Past. " 
There  her  voice  rose,  and  seemed 
as  when  some 

Pale  Priestess  proclaims    from  her 
temple  the  praise 

Of  the  hero  whose    brows    she    is 
crowning  with  bays. 

Step  by  step  did  she  follow  his  path 
from  the  place 

Where    their   two    paths    diverged. 
Year  by  year  did  she  trace 

(Familiar  with  all)  his,  the  soldier's 
existence. 

Her  words  were  of  trial,  endm*ance, 
resistance ; 

Of  the  leaguer  around  this  besieged 
world  of  ours  : 

And  the  same  sentinels  that  ascend 
the  same  towers 

And  report  the  same  foes,  the  same 
fears,  the  same  strife, 

"Waged  alike  to  the  limits  of  each 
human  life. 

She  went  on  to  speak  of  the  lone 
moody  lord, 

Shut  up  in  his  lone  mocnly  halls  : 
every  word 

Held  the  weight  of  a  tear  :  she  re- 
corded the  good 

He  had  patiently  wrought  through  a 
whole  neighborhood  ; 

And  the  blessing  that  lived  on  the 
lips  of  the  poor. 

Ay  the  peasant's  hearthstone,  or  the 
cottager's  door. 

There  she  paused  :  and  her  accents 
seemed  dipped  in  the  hue 

Of  his  own  sombre  heart,  as  the  pic- 
ture she  drew 

Of  the  poor,  proud,  sad  spirit,  reject- 
ing love's  wages. 

Yet  working  love's  work  ;  reading 
backwards  life's  pages 

For  penance  ;  and  stubbornly,  many 
a  time, 

Both  missing  the  moral,  and  mar- 
ring the  rhyme. 

Then  she  spoke  of  the  soldier  !  .  .  . 
the  man's  work  and  fame, 


The  pride  of  a  nation,  a  world's  just 

acclaim  ! 
Life's  inward  approval  I 

xxvin. 

Her  voice  reached  his  heart, 
And  sank  lower.     She  spoke  of  her- 
self :  how,  apart 
And  unseen, — far  away, — -she    had 

watched,  year  by  year. 
With  how    many  a    blessing,   how 

many  a  tear, 
And  how  many  a  prayer,  every  stage 

in  the  strife  : 
Guessed  the  thought  m  the  deed  : 

traced  the  love  in  the  life  : 
Blessed  the  man  in  the  man's  work  I 

"  Thy  work  .  .  .  O.  not  mine  ! 
Thine,  Lucile  ! "  .  .  .  he  exclaimed 

.  .  .  '' all  the  worth  of  it  thine 
If  worth  there  be  in  it  I  " 

Her  answer  conveyed 
His  reward,  and  her  own  ;  joy  that 

cannot  be  said 
Alone  by  the  voice  .  .  .  eyes — face 

— spoke  silently  : 
All  the  woman, one  grateful  emotion ! 
And  she 
A  poor  Sister  of  Charity  I  hers  a  life 

spent 
In  one  silent  effort  for  others  I  .  .  . 
She  bent 
Her  divine  face  above  him,  and  filled 

up  his  heart 
With  the  look  that  glowed  from  it. 

Then  slow,  with  soft  art, 
Fixed  her  aim,  and  moved  to  it. 

XXIX. 

He,  the  soldier  humane, 

He,  the  hero  ;  whose  heart  hid  in 
glory  the  pain 

Of  a  youth  disappointed  ;  whose  life 
had  made  known 

The  value  of  man's  life  !  ...  that 
youth  overthrown 

And  retrieved,  had  it  left  him  no 
pity  for  youth 

In  another  ?  his  own  life  of  strenu- 
ous truth 


152 


LUCILE. 


Accomplished  in  act,  had  it  taught 
him  no  care 

For  the  life  of  another  ?  .  .  .  O  no! 
everywhere 

In    the    camp    v/hich    she    moved 
through,  she  came  face  to  face 

With  some  noble  token,  some  gener- 
ous trace 

Of  his  active  humanity  .  .  . 

"  Well,"  he  replied, 

"If  it  be  so?" 
"  I  come  from  the  solemn  bedside 

Of  a  mail  that  is  dying,"   she  said. 
"  Wliile  we  speak 

A  life  is  in  jeopard3\" 

"  Quick  then  !  you  seek 

Aid  or  medicine,  or  what  ?  " 

'"Tis  not  needed,"  she  said. 

"Medicine  ?  yes,  for  the  mind  !  'Tis 
a  heart  that  needs  aid  ! 

You,  Eugene  de  Luvois,  you   (and 
you  only)  can  [save  it  ?  " 

Save  the  life  of  this  man.    Will  you 
"Whatman? 

How  ?  .  .  .  where  ?  .    .   .    can   you 
ask  ?  " 

She  went  rapidly  on 

To  her  object  in  brief  vivid  words 
.  .  .  The  young  son 

Of  Matilda  and  Alfred— the  boy  ly- 
ing there 

naif  a  mile  from  that  tent-door — the 
fathers  despair. 

The  mother's    deep    anguish  —  the 
pride  of  the  boy 


In  the  father- 


father's  one  hope 


and  one  joy 
In  the  son  : — the  son  now — wounded, 

dying  !    She  told 
Of  the  "father's  stern  struggle  wath 

life  :  the  boy's  bold, 
Pure,  and  beautiful  natm'e  ;  the  fair 

life  before  him 
If  that  life  were  but  spared  .  .  .  yet 

a  word  might  restore  him  ! 
The  boy's  broken  love  for  the  niece 

of  Eugene  ! 
Its  pathos  :  the  girl's  love  for  him  ; 

how,  half  slain 
In  his  tent  she  had  found  him  ;  won 

from  him  the  tale  ; 


Sought  to  nurse  back  bis  life  ;  found 
her  efforts  still  fail  ; 

Beaten    back   by  a  love    that  was 
stronger  than  life  ; 

Of  how  bravely  till  then  he    had 
stood  in  that  strife 

Wherein    England  and    France   in 
their  best  blood,  at  last, 

Had  bathed  from  remembrance  the 
wounds  of  the  past. 

And  shall  nations  be  nobler  than 
men  ?    Are  not  great 

Men  the  models  of  nations  ?    For 
what  is  a  state 

But  the  many's  confused  imitation 
of  one  ? 

Shall  he,  the  fair  hero  of  France  on 
the  son 

Of  his  ally  seek  vengeance,  destroy- 
ing perchance 

An  innocent  life, — here  when  Eng- 
land and  France 

Have    forgiven    the    sins    of    their 
fathers  of  yore, 

And  baptized  a  new  hope  in  their 
sons'  recent  gore  ? 

She  went  on  to  tell  how  the  boy  had 
clung  still  [until 

To  life,  for  the  sake  of  life's  uses, 

From  his  weak  hands  the  strong  ef- 
fort dropped,  stricken  down 

By  the  news  that  the  heart  of  Con- 
stance, like  his  own, 

Was  breaking  beneath  .  .  . 
But  there  "Hold  !"  he  exclaimed, 

Interrupting,   "forbear!"   ...  his 
whole  face  was  inflamed 

With  the   heart's  swarthy  thunder 
which  yet,  while  she  spoke. 

Had  been  gathering  silent, — at  last 
the  storm  broke 

In  grief  or  in  wrath  .  .  . 

"  'Tis  to  him,  then,"  he  cried,  .  .  . 

Checking    suddenly    short  the  tu- 
multuous stride, 

"  That  I  owe  these  late  greetings,— 
for  him  you  are  hero, — 

For  his  sake  you  seek  me, — for  him, 
it  is  clear, 

You  liave  deigned  at  the  last  to  b€^ 
think  you  again 


LUC2LE 


^53 


Of  this  long-forgotten  existence  ! " 

"  Eugene  !  " 
"  Ha  !    fool  that  I  was  ! "...  he 

went  on,  .  .  .  '•  and  just  now, 
While  you  spoke  yet,  my  heart  was 

beginning  to  grow 
Almost  boyish  again,  almost  sure  of 

one  friend  ! 
Yet  this  was  the  meaning  of  all, — 

this  the  end  ! 
Be  it  so  I    There's  a  sort  of  slow 

justice  (admit  ! ) 
In  this, — that  the  word  that  man's 

finger  hath  writ  [last. 

In  fire  on  my  heart,  I  return  him  at 

Let  him  learn  that  word. — Xever  !  " 

'"  Ah.  still  to  the  past 

Must  the  present  be  vassal  ?  "  she 

said.     "  In  the  horn* 
We  last  parted  I  urged  you  to  put 

forth  the  power 
Which  I  felt  to  l)e  yours,  in  the  con- 
quest of  life. 
Yours,  the  promise  to  strive :  mine, — 

to  watch  o'er  the  strife. 
I  foresaw  you  would  conquer;  you 

/ittue  conquered  much. 
Much,  indeed,  that  is  noble  I    I  hail 

it  as  such. 
And  am  here  to  record  and  applaud 

it.     I  sav/ 
Not  the  less  in  your  nature,  Eugene 

de  Luvois, 
One  peril, — one  point  where  I  feared 

you  would  fail 
To  subdue  that  worst  foe  which  a 

man  can  assail, — 
Himself  :  and  1  promised  that,  if  I 

should  see 
Zvly  champion  once  falter,  or  bend 

the  brave  knee. 
That  moment  would  bring  me  again 

to  his  side. 
That  moment    is    come  !    for    that 

peril  was  pride. 
And  you  falter.     I  plead  for  your- 
self, and  one  other. 
For  that  gentle  child  without  father 

or  niotlier. 
To  whom  you  are  both.     I  plead, 

coldier  of  France, 


For  your  own  nobler  nature, — and 

plead  for  Constance  !  " 
At  the  sound  of  that  name  he  avert- 
ed his  head. 
''Constance  !  .  .  .  Ay,   she  entered 

my  lone  life  "  (he  said) 
"  When  its  sun  was  long  set ;  and 

hung  over  its  night 
Her  own  starry  childhood.     I  have 

but  that  light. 
In  the  midst  of    much  darkness  I 

Who  names  me  but  she 
With  titles  of  love  ?  and  what  rests 

there  for  me 
In  the  silence  of  age  save  the  voice 

of  that  child  ? 
The  child  of  my  own  better  life,  un- 

defiled  ! 
My  creatm-e,  carved  out  of  my  heart 

of  hearts  ! " 

"  Say," 
Said  the  Soenr  Seraphine, — "  are  yon 

able  to  lay 
Yom*  hand  as  a  knight  on  your  heart 

as  a  man 
And  swear  that,  whatever  may  hap- 
pen, you  can 
Feel  assured  for  the  life  you  thus 

cherish  ?  " 

"How  so?" 
He  looked  up.     "  H  the  boy  should 

die  thus  ?  " 

*'Yes,  I  know 
What  your  look  would  imply  .  .  . 

this  sleek  stranger  forsooth  ! 
Because  on  his  cheek  was  the  red 

rose  of  youth 
The  heart  of  my  niece  must  break 

for  it  !" 

She  cried, 
"  Nay,  but  hear  me  yet  further  !  " 

AVith  slow  heavy  stride, 
Unheeding  her  words,  he  was  pacing 

the  tent,  [he  went. 

He  was  muttering  low  to  himself  as 
*•  Ay,  these  young  things  lie  safe  hi 

our  heart  just  so  lo''^ 
As  their  wings  are  in  growing  ;  and 

when  these  are  strong 
They  break  it,   and  farewell  I    the 

bird  files  1 "  ,  .  o 


154 


LUCILE, 


The  nun 
Laid  her  hand  oa  the  soldier,  and 

murmursdj  **  The  sun 
Is  descending,  life  fieets  while  we 

talk  thus  !    O,  yet 
Let  this  day  upon  one  final  victory 

set, 
And  complete  a  life's  conquest  !*^ 

He  said,  "  Understand  ! 
If  Constance  wed   the   son   of  this 

man,  by  whose  liand 
My  heart  liath  been  robbed,  she  is 

lost  to  my  life  ! 
Can  her  home  be  my  home  ?    Can  I 

claim  in  the  wife 
Of  that  man's  sou  the  child  of  my 

age  ?    At  her  side 
Shall    he    stand    on    my    hearth? 

Shall  I  sue  to  the  bride 
Of  .  .  .  enough  ! 

'*  Ah,  and  you  immemorial  halls 
Of  my  Norman  forefathers,  whose 

shadow  yet  falls 
On    my    fancy,    and     fuses    hope, 

memory,  past. 
Present, — all,   in   one  silence  !    old 

trees  to  the  blast 
Of  the  North  Sea  repeating  the  tale 

of  old  days. 
Nevermore,  nevermore  in  the  wild 

bosky  ways 
Shall  I  hear  through  your  umbrage 

ancestral  the  wind 
Prophesy  as  of  yore,  when  it  shook 

the  deep  mind 
Of  my  boyhood,  with  whispers  from 

out  the  far  years 
Of  love,  fame,  the  raptures  life  cools 

down  with  tears  ! 
Henceforth  shall  the  tread  of  a  Yar- 

grave  alone 
Rouse  your  echoes  ?  "  [son 

**  O,  think  not,"  she  said,  "  of  the 
Of  the  man  whom  unjustly  you  hate ; 

only  think 
Of  this  young  human  creature,  that 

cries  from  the  brink 
Of  a  grave  to  your  mercy  ! 

**  Recall  youi:  own  words 
("Words  my  memory  mournfully  ever 

records !) 


How  with  love  may  be  wrecked  a 

whole  life  !  tlien,  Eugene, 
Look  with  me  (still  those  words  in 

our  ears  !)  once  again 
At  this  young  soldier  sinking  from 

life  here, — dragged  down 
By  the  weight  of  the  love  in  his       \ 

heart  :  no  renown, 
No    fame    comforts    him  I    nations       [ 

shout  not  above 
The  lone  grave  down  to  which  he  is       \ 

bearing  the  love 
Which  life  has  rejected  !    Will  you 

stand  apart  ? 
You,   with  such  a    love's    memory       ' 

deep  in  your  heart  !  '        i 

You  the  hero,  whose  life  hath  per-       i 

'     chance  been  led  on 
Through  the  deeds  it  hath  wrought 

to  the  fame  it  hath  won, 
By  recalling  the  visions  and  dreams 

of  a  youth. 
Such  as  lies  at  your  door  now  :  who 

have  but,  in  truth, 
To  stretch  forth  a  hand,  to  speak 

only  one  word. 
And  by  tliat  word    you    rescue    a 

life  ! " 

He  was  stirred. 
Still  he  sought  to  put  from  him  the 

cup  ;  bowed  his  face 
On  his  hand  ;  and  anon,  as  though 

wishing  to  chase 
With  one  angry  gesture    his    own 

thoughts  aside. 
He  sprang  up,  brushed  past  her,  and 

bitterly  cried, 
"  No  ! — Constance  wed  a  Vargrave  ! 

— I  cannot  consent  !  " 
Then  uprose  the  Soeur  Seraphine. 

The  low  tent, 
In    her    sudden    uprising,    seemed 

dwarfed  by  the  height 
From    which    those    imperial    eyes 

poured  the  light  [him. 

Of  their  deep  silent  sadness  upon 

No  wonder 

He  felt,  as  it  were,  his  own  stature 

shrink  imder 
The  compulsion  of  that  grave  re- 
gard !    For  between 


LUCILE. 


55 


The  Due  de  Lurois  and   the  Soeur 

Serapliine 
At  that  moment  there  rose  all  the 

height  of  one  soul 
O'er  another  ;  she  looked  down  on 

him  from  the  whole 
Lonely  length  of  a  life.     There  were 

sad  nights  and  days, 
There  were  long  months  and  years 

in  that  heart-searching  gaze  ; 
And  her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  with 

sharp  pathos  thrilled  through, 
And  transfixed  him. 

"  Eugene  de  Luvois,  but  for  you, 
I  might  have  been  now, — not  this 

wandering  nun, 
But  a  mother,  a  wife, — pleading,  not 

for  the  son 
Of  another,  but  blessing  some  child 

of  my  own, 
His, — the  man's  that  I  once  loved! .  . 

Hush  !  that  which  is  done 
I    regret    not.      I    breathe    no    re- 
proaches.    That's  best 
Which  God  sends.     'T was  His  will  : 

it  is  mine.     And  the  rest 
Of  that  riddle  I  will  not  look  back 

to.     He  reads 
In  your  heart, — He  that  judges  of 

all  thoughts  and  deeds. 
With  eyes,  mine  forestall  not  I  This 

only  I  say  : 
You  have  not  the  right  (read  it,  you, 

as  you  may  !) 
To  say  ,  .  .  '  I  am  the  wronged.'  "... 
"  Have  I  wronged  thee  ? — wronged 

thee  ! " 
He  faltered,  "Lucile,  ah,  Lucile  !" 
*'Xay,  not  me," 
She    murmured,    "but  man  !    The 

lone  nun  standing  here 
Has  no  claim  upon  earth,   and  is 

passed  from  the  sphere 
Of  earth's  wrongs  and  earth's  repar- 
ations.    But  she, 
The  dead  woman,  Lucile,  she  whose 

grave  is  in  me. 
Demands  from  her  grave  reparation 

to  man, 
Reparation  to  God.     Heed,  O  heed, 

Tvhile  you  can, 


This  voice  from  the  grave  ! " 

"  Hush  ! "  he  moaned,  *'  I  obey 
The  Soeur  Seraphine.  There,  Lucile  ! 

let  this  pay 
Every  debt  that  is  due  to  that  grave. 

Now  lead  on  : 
I  follow  you,  Sceur  Seraphine  ! .  .  .  . 

To  the  son 
Of  Lord  Alfred  Yargrave  .  .  .  and 

then,"  . ..  . 

As  he  spoke 
He  lifted  the  tent-door,  and  down 

the  dun  smoke 
Pointed  out  the  dark  bastions,  with 

batteries  crowned. 
Of  the  city  beneath  them  .  .  . 

"  Then,  there,  imderground, 
And  valete  et  plaudite,  soon  as  may 

be  ! 
Let  the  old  tree  go  down  to  the  earth, 

— the  old  tree, 
With  the  worm  at  its  heart  !    Lay 

the  axe  to  the  root  ! 
Who  will  miss  the  old  stump,  so  we 

save  the  young  shoot  ? 
A  Vargrave  !  .  .  .  this  pays  all  .  .  . 

Lead  on  !  ...  in  the  seed 
Save  the  forest  !  .  .  . 
"  I  follow  .  .  .  forth,  forth  I  where 

you  lead." 


The  day  was  declining  ;  a  day  sick 

and  damp. 
In  a  blank  ghostly  glare  shone  the 

bleak  ghostly  camp 
Of  the  English.     Alone  in  his  dim, 

spectral  tent 
(Himself  the  wan  spectre  of  youth), 

with  eyes  bent 
On  the  daylight  departing,  the  sick 

man  was  sitting 
Upon  his  low  pallet.  These  thoughts, 

vaguely  flitting, 
Crossed  the  silence  between  him  and 

death,  which  seemed  near. 
— "  Pain    o'erreaches    itself,   ao  is 

balked  !  else,  how  bear 
This   intense    and  intolerable  soli- 
tude. 


15^ 


LUCILE. 


With  its  eye  on  my  heart,  and  its 

hand  on  my  blood  ? 
Pulse  by  pulse  !    Day  goes  down  : 

yet  she  comes  not  asjain. 
Other    suffering,    doubtless,   where 

hope  is  more  plain, 
Claims  her  elsewhere.  I  die,  strange ! 

and  scarcely  feel  sad. 
O,  to  think  of  Constance  i/ms,  and 

not  to  go  mad  ! 
But  Death,  it  would  seem,  dulls  the 

sense  to  his  own 
Dull  doings  ..." 


Between  those  sick  eyes  and  the 
sun 
A  shadow  fell  thwart. 

xxxn. 

'Tis  the  pale  nun  once  more  ! 
But  who  stands  at  her  side,  mute 

and  dark  in  the  door  ? 
How  oft  had  he  watched  through 

the  glory  and  gloom 
Of  the  battle,   with    long,   longing 

looks  that  dim  plume 
Which    now   (one    stray    sunbeam 

upon  it)  shook,  stooped 
To  where  the  tent-curtain,  dividing, 

was  looped  ! 
How  that  slern  face  had  haunted 

and  hovered  about 
The  dreams  it  still  scared  !  through 

what  fond  fear  and  doubt 
Had  the  boy  yearned  in  heart  to  the 

liero  !    (AVhat's  like 
A    boy's    love    for    some    famous 

man  ?)  .  .  .  O,  to  strike 
A  wild  path  through  the  battle,  down 

striking  perchance 
Some  rash  foeman  too  near  the  great 

soldier  of  France, 
And    so    fall    in    his    glorious    re- 
gard ! .  .  .  Oft,  how  oft 
Had  his  lieart  flashed  this  hope  out, 

whilst  watching  aloft 
The  dim  battle  that  plume  dance  and 

dart, — never  seen 
So  near  till  this  moment  I  how  eager 


Every  stray  word,  dropped  through 
the  camp-babble  in  praise 

Of  his  hero,— each  tale  of  old  ven- 
turous days 

In  the  desert  !  And  now  .  .  .  could 
he  speak  out  his  heart 

Face  to  face  with  that  man  ere  he 
died  ! 


With  a  start 
The  sick    soldier   sprang  up  :    the 

blood  sprang  up  in  hira, 
To  his  throat,  and  o'erthrew  him  : 

he  reeled  back  :  a  dim 
Sanguine  haze  tilled  his  6yes  ;  in  his 

ears  rose  the  din 
And  rush,  as  of  cataracts  loosened 

within. 
Through  which  he  saw  faintly,  and 

hoard,  the  pale  nun 
(Looking  larger  than  life,  where  she 

stood  in  the  sun) 
Point  to    him  and  murmur,   "  Be- 
hold !  "     Then  that  plume 
Seemed  to  wave  like  a  fire,  and  fade 

off  in  the  gloom 
^Yhich  momently  put  out  the  world. 

XXXIV. 

To  his  side 

Moved  the  man  the  boy  dreaded  yet 

loved  .  .  **  Ah!"  .  .  he  sighed,' 

"  The  smooth   brow,  the   fair  Var- 

grave  face  !  and  those  eyes. 
All  the  mother's  !    The  old  things 
again  ! 

*'Do  not  rise. 
You  suffer,  yomig  man  ?  " 
The  Boy. 

Sir,  I  die. 

The  Duke. 

Not  so  young  1 
The  Boy. 
So    young  ?    yes  !    and  yet  I  have 

tangled  among 
The  frayed  warp  and  woof  of  thia 
brief  life  of  muie 


LUCILE. 


157 


Other  lives  than  luy  own.     Could  my 
death  but  untwine 

The  vext  skein  .  .  .  but  it  will  not. 
Yes,  Duke,  young — so  young  ! 

Axid  I  knew  you  not  ?  yet  I  have  done 
you  a  wrong 

Irreparable  !  .  .  .  late,  too  late  to 
repair. 

If  I  knew  any  means  .  .  .  but  I  know 
none  !  .  .  .  I  swear, 

If  this  broken  fraction  of  time  could 
extend  [end 

Into  infinite  lives  of  atonement,  no 

Would  seem  too  remote  for  my  grief 
(could  that  be  !) 

To  include  it  !    Not  too  late,  how- 
ever, for  me 

To  entreat  :  is  it  too  late  for  you  to 
forgive  ? 

The  Duke. 

You     wrong — my    forgiveness — ex- 
plain. 

The  Boy. 
Could  I  live  ! 

Such  a  very  few  hours  left  to  life, 
yet  I  shrink, 

I  falter  !  .  .  .  Yes,  Duke,  your  for- 
giveness I  think 

Should  free  my  soul  hence. 

Ah  !  you  could  not  surmise 

That  a  boy's  beating  heart,  burning 
thoughts,  longing  eyes 

Were  following  you  evermore  (heed- 
ed not  !) 

While  the  battle  was  flowing  between 
us  :  nor  what 

Eager,  dubious  footsteps  at  nightfall 
oft  went 

With  the  wind  and  the  rain,  round 
and  round  your  blind  tent, 

Persistent  and  wild  as  the  wind  and 
the  rain. 

Unnoticed  as  these,  weak  as  these, 
and  as  vain  ! 

0,  how  obdurate  then  looked  your 
tent  !    The  waste  air 

Grew  stern  at  the  gleam  which  said 
...  "Off  !  he  is  there!" 

I  know  not  what  merciful  mystery 
now 


Brings  you  here,  whence  the  man 

whom  you  see  lying  low 
Other  footsteps  (not  those  !)  must 

soon  bear  to  the  grave. 
But  death  is  at  hand,  and  the  few 

words  I  have 
Yet  to  speak,  I  must  speak  them  at 

once. 

Duke,  I  swear. 
As  I  he  here  (Death's  angel  too  close 

not  to  hear  !) 
That  I  meant  not  this  wrong  to  you. 

Due  de  Luvois, 
I  loved  your  niece — loved  ?  why,  I 

love  her  !    I  saw, 
And,  seeing,  how  coidd  I  but  love 

her  ?    I  seemed 
Bom  to  love  her.     Alas,  were  that 

all  !  had  I  dreamed 
Of  this  love's  cruel  consequence  as 

it  rests  now 
Ever  fearfully  present  before  me,  I 

vow 
That  the  secret,  unknown,  had  gone 

down  to  the  tomb 
Into  which  I  descend  .  .  .  O  why, 

whilst  there  was  room 
In  life  left  for  warning,  had  no  one 

the  heart 
To  warn  me  ?    Had  anyone  whis- 
pered ..."  Depart  ! " 
To  the  hope  the  whole  world  seemed 

in  league  then  to  nurse  ! 
Had   anyone  hinted  .  .  .  '*  Beware 

of  the  curse 
Which  is  coming  !"     There  was  not 

a  voice  raised  to  tell, 
Not  a  hand  moved  to  warn  from  the 

blow  ere  it  fell, 
And  then  .  .  .  then  the  blow  fell  on 

both  I    This  is  why 
I  implore  you  to  pardon  that  great 

injury 
Wrought  on  her,  and,  through  her, 
wrought  on  you,  Heaven  knows 
How  unwittingly  ! 

The  Duke. 

Ah  !  .  .  and,  young  soldier,  suppose 
That  I  came  here  to  seek,  not  grant, 
pardon  ? — 


158 


LUCILE. 


The  Boy. 

Of  whom  ? 
The  Dukk. 
Of  yourself. 

The  Boy. 
Dxike,  I  bear  in  my  heart  to  the 

tomb 
Kg    boyish    resentment ;    not    one 

lonely  thought 
That  honors  you  not.     In  all  this 

there  is  nought 
'Tis  for  me  to  forgive. 

Every  glorious  act 
Of  your  great  life  starts  forward,  an 

eloquent  fact, 
To    confirm  in  my  boy's  heart  its 

faith  in  your  own. 
And  have  I  not  hoarded,  to  ponder 

upon, 
A  hundred  great  acts  from  your  life  ? 

Nay,  all  these. 
Were  they  so  many  lying  and  false 

witnesses, 
Does  there  rest  not  one  voice,  which 

was  never  untrue  ? 
I  believe  in  Constknce,  Duke,  as  she 

does  in  you  I 
In  this  great  world  around  us,  wher- 
ever we  turn, 
Some  grief  irremediable  we  discern  ; 
And  yet^there  sits   God,  calm  in 

Heaven  above  ! 
Do  we  trust  ono  whit  less  in  His  just- 
ice or  love  ? 
I  judge  not. 

The  Duke. 
Enough !  hear  at  last,  then,  the  truth. 
Your  father  and  I, — foes  we  were  in 

our  youth. 
It  matters  not  why.     Yet  thus  much 

understand  : 
The  hope  of  my  youth  was  signed 

out  by  his  hand. 
I  was  not  of  those  whom  the  buffets 

of  fate 
Tame    and    teach :    and  my  heart 

buried  slain  love  in  hate. 
If  your  own  frank  young  heart,  yet 

unconscious  of  all 


Which  turns  the  heart's  blood  in  its 
springtide  to  gall, 

And  unable  to  guess  even  aught  that 
the  furrow 

Across  these  gray  brows  hides  of  sin 
or  of  sorrow. 

Comprehends  not  the  evil  and  grief 
of  my  life, 

'Twill  at  least  comprehend  how  in- 
tense was  the  strife 

Which  is  closed  in  this  act  of  atone- 
ment, whereby 

I  seek  in  the  son  of    my  youth's 
enemy 

The  friend  of  my  age.    Let  the  pres- 
ent release 

Here    acquitted  the  past  I    In  the   i 
name  of  my  niece, 

Whom  for  my  life  in  yours  as  a  host- 
age I  give. 

Are  you  great  enough,  boy,  to  for- 
give me, — and  live  ?  j 

Whilst  he  spoke  thus,  a  doubtful  tu-    ' 

multuous  joy 
Chased  its  fleeting  eiTects  o'er  the 

face  of  the  boy  : 
As  when  some  stormy  moon,  in  a 

long  cloud  confined, 
Struggles  outward  through  shadows,    ' 

the  varying  wind 
Alternates,    and     bursts,     self-sur- 
prised, from  her  prison, 
So  that  slow  joy  grew  clear  in  his 

face.     He  had  risen 
To  answer  the  Duke  ;  but  strength    ; 

failed  3very  limb  ; 
A  strange,  happy  feebleness  trembled  \ 

through  him. 
With  a  faint  cry  of  rapturous  wonder, 

he  sank  [near. 

On  the  breast  of  the  .nun,  who  stood 

"  Yes,  boy  !  thank         '  ! 
This  guardian  angel,"  the  Duke  said. 

''  I— you. 
We  owe  all  to  her.    Crown  her  work. 

Live  !  be  true 
To  your  young  life's  fair  promise,, 

and  live  for  her  sake  ! " 
"Yes,  Duke  :   I  will  live.    I  muAt 

live, — live  to  make 


LUCILE. 


159 


My  whole  life  the  answer  you  claim," 

the  boy  said, 
"  For  joy  does  not  kill  !  " 

Back  again  the  faint  head 
Declined  on  the  nun's  gentle  bosom. 

She  saw 
His  lips  quiver,  and  motioned  the 

Dulve  to  withdraw 
And  leave  them  a  moment  together. 
He  eyed 
Them  both  with  a  wistful  regard  ; 

turned,  and  sighed, 
And  lifted  the  tent-door,  and  passed 

from  the  tent. 

XXXV. 

Like  a  furnace,  the  fervid,  intense 
Occident 

From  its  hot  seething  levels  a  great 
glare  struck  up 

On  the  sick  metal  sky.  And,  as  out 
of  a  cup 

Some  witch  watches  boiling  wild  por- 
tents arise. 

Monstrous  clouds,  massed,  misshap- 
en, and  tinged  with  strange 
dyes. 

Hovered  over  the  red  fume,  and 
changed  to  weird  shapes 

As  of  snakes,  salamanders,  efts,  liz- 
ards, storks,  apes. 

Chimeras,  and  hydras  :  whilst — ever 
the  :ame — 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  (creatm*es 
fused  by  his  flame. 

And  changed  by  his  influence  !) 
changeless,  as  when, 

Ere  he  lit  down  to  death  generations 
of  men, 

O'er  that  crude  and  ungainly  crea- 
tion, which  tliere 

With  wild  shapes  this  cloud-world 
seemed  to  mimic  in  air. 

The  eye  of  Heaven's  all-judging  wit- 
ness, he  shone, 

And  shall  shine  on  the  ages  we  reach 
not, — the  sun  1 

xxxvr. 

Nature  posted  her  parable  thus  in 

the  skies. 
And  the  man's,  heart  bore  witness. 

Life's  vapors  arise 


And  fall,  pass  and  change,  group 

themselves  and  revolve 
Round  the  great  central  life,  which 

is  Love  :  these  dissolve 
And  resume  themselves,  here  assume 

beauty,  there  terror  ; 
And  the  phantasmagoria  of  infinite 

error, 
And  endless  complexity,  lasts  but  a 

while  ; 
Life's  self,  the  immortal,  immutable 

smile 
Of  God,  on  the  soul,  in  the  deep 

heart  of  Heaven 
Lives  changeless,  unchanged  :  and 

our  morning  and  even 
Are  earth's  alterations,  not  Heaven's. 

XXXVII. 

While  he  yet 

Watched  the  skies,  with  this  thought 
in  his  heart  ;  while  he  set 

Thus  unconsciously  all  his  life  forth 
in  his  mind. 

Summed  it  up,  searched  it  out,  proved 
it  vapor  and  wind, 

And  embraced  the  new  life  which 
that  hour  had  revealed, — 

Love's  life,  which  earth's  life  had 
defaced  and  concealed  ; 

Lucile  left  the  tent  and  stood  by  him. 
Her  tread 

Aroused  him  ;  and,  turning  towards 
her,  he  said  : 

*'  O     Soeur     Seraphine,     are     you 
happy?" 

"  Eugene, 

What  is  happier  than  to  have  hoped 
not  in  vain  ?  " 

She  answered, — "  And  you  ?  '■* 
"  Yes." 
"You  do  not  repent  ?" 

"No." 
"  Thank    Heaven  !  "    she    mur- 
mured.    He  musingly  bent 

His  looks  on  the  sunset,  and  some- 
what apart 

Where  he  stood,  sighed,  as  though  to 
his  innermost  heart, 

"  O  "blessed  are  they,  amongst  whom 
I  was  not, 


LUC  I  LB, 


Whose  morning  unclouded,  vrithout 
stain  or  spot, 

Predicts  a  pure  .evening  ;  wlio,  sun- 
like, in  liglit 

Have  traversed,  unsullied,  the  world, 
and  set  bright  I " 

But  she  in  response,  "  Mark  yon  ship 

far  away, 
Asleep  on  the  wave,  in  the  last  light 

of  day, 
With  all  its  hushed  thunders  shut 

up  1    Would  you  know 
A  thought  which  came  to  me  a  few 

days  ago. 
Whilst  watching  those  ships  ?  .  .  . 

When  the  great  Ship  of  Life, 
Surviving,    though    shattered,    the 

tumult  and  strife 
Of   earth's    angry   element, — masts 

broken  short, 
Decks  drenched,  bulwarks  beaten, — 

drives  safe  into  port, 
When  the  Pilot  of  Galilee,  seen  on 

the  strand, 
Stretches  over  the  waters  a  welcom- 
ing hand  ; 
When,  heeding  no  longer  the  sea's 

baffled  roar, 
The  mariner  turns  to  his  rest  ever- 
more ; 
What  will  then  be  the  answer  the 

helmsman  must  give  ? 
Will  it  be  .  .  .  '  Lo  our  log-book  ! 

Thus  once  did  we  live 
In  the  zones  of  the  South  ;  thus  we 

traversed  the  seas 
Df  the  Orient  ;  there  dwelt  with  the 

Hesperides  ; 
Thence    followed    the    west-wind  ; 

here,  eastward  we  turned  ; 
The  stars  failed  us  there  ;  just  here 

land  we  discerned 
On  onr  iee  ;  thero  the  storm  over- 
took us  at  Icist ; 
That  day  went    the   bowsprit,    the 

next  day  the  mast  ; 
There  the  mermen  came  round  us, 

and  there  we  saw  bask 
A  siren  ? '    The  Captain  of  Port  will 

he  ask 


Any  one  of  such  questions  ?  I  can- 
not think  so  I 

But  .  .  .  '  What  is  the  last  Bill  of 
Health  you  can  show  ? ' 

Not — How  fared  the  soul  through  the 
trials  she  passed  ? 

But — What  is  the  state  of  that  soul 
at  the  last  ?  " 

"  May  it  be  so  ! "  he  sighed.  "  There  \ 

the  sun  drops,  beliold  I  " 
And  indeed,  whilst  he  spoke,  all  the 

purple  and  gold 
In  the  west  had  turned  ashen,  save 

one  fading  strip 
Of  light  that  yet  gleamed  from  the 

dark  nether  lip 
Of  a  long  reef  of  cloud  ;  and  o'er 

sullen  ravines 
And    ridges    the    raw  damps   were 

hajiging  white  screens 
Of  melancholy  mist. 

"  JVunc  dlmittis  !  "  she  said. 
"  O  God  of  the  living !  whilst  yet 

'mid  the  dead 
And  the  dying  v/e  stand  here  alive, 

and  thy  days 
Returning,  admit  space  for  prayer 

and  for  praise, 
In  both  these  conlirm  us  I 

''  The  helmsman,  Eugene, 
Needs  the  compass  to  steer  by.    Pray 

always.     Again 
We  two  part  :    each    to  work  out 

Heaven's  will :  you,  I  trust, 
In  the  world's  ample  witness  ;  and  I, 

as  I  must. 
In  secret   and  silence  :    you,   love, 

fame,  await  ; 
Me,  sorrow  and  sickness.     We  meet 

at  one  gate 
When  all's  over.    The  ways  they  are 

many  and  wide, 
And  seldom  are  two  ways  the  same. 

Side  by  side 
May  we  stand  at  the  same  little  door 

when  all's  done  I 
The  ways  they  are  many,  the  end  it 

is  one. 
He  that  knocketh  shall  enter  :  who 

asks  shall  obtain : 


LUCILE. 


i6i 


And  who  seeketh,  he  findeth.     Re- 
member, Eugene  ! " 

She  turned  to  depart. 
"Whither?  whither?"   ...   he 
said. 

She  stretclied  forth  her  hand  where, 
ah-eady  outspread 

On  the  darkened  horizon,  remotel}' 
they  saw 

The  French  camp-fires  kindling. 

"  O  Due  de  Luvois, 

See  yonder  vast  host,  with  its  mani- 
fold heart 

Made  as  one  man's  by  one  hope  ! 
That  hope  'tis  your  part 

To  aid  towards  achievement,  to  save 
from  reverse  : 

Mine,  through  suffering  to  soothe, 
and  through  sickness  to  niu-se. 

I  go  to  my  work  :  you  to  yours.' 

Whilst  she  spoke. 

On  the  wide  wasting  evening  there 
distantly  broke 

The  low  roll  of  musketry.     Straight- 
v.-ay,  anon. 

From  the  dim  Flag-staff  Battery  bel- 
lowed a  gun. 

"  Our  chasseurs  are  at  it  ! "  he  mut- 
tered. 

She  turned, 

Smiled,  and  passed  up  the  twilight. 
He  faintly  discerned 

Her  form,  now  and  then,  on  the  flat 
lurid  sky 

Rise,  and  sink,  and  recede  through 
the  mists  ;  by  and  by 

The  vapors  closed  round,  and  he  saw 
her  no  more. 

xxs 

Nor  shall  we.     For  her  mission,  ac- 
complished, is  o'er. 

The  mission  of  genius  on  earth  I  To 
uplift, 

Purify,  and  confirm  by  its  own  gra- 
cious gift, 

The  world,  in  despite  of  the  world's 
dull  endeavor 
11 


To  degrade,  and  drag  down,  and  op- 
pose it  forever. 

The  mission  of  genius  :  to  watch,  and 
to  wait, 

To  renew,  to  redeem,  and  to  regen- 
erate. 

The  mission  of  woman  on  earth  !  to 
give  birth 

To  the  mercy  of  Heaven  descending 
on  earth. 

The  mission  of  woman  :  permitted 
to  bruise 

The  head  of  the  serpent,  and  sweetly 
infuse, 

Through  the  sorrow  and  sin  of  earth's 
registered  curse. 

The  blessing  which  mitigates  all : 
born  to  nurse, 

And  to  soothe,  and  to  solace,  to  help 
and  to  heal 

The  sick  world  that  leans  on  her. 
This  was  Lucile. 


XL. 

A  power  hid  in  pathos  :  a  fire  veiled 

in  cloud  : 
Yet  still  burning  outward  :  a  branch 

which,  though  bowed 
By  the  bird  in  its  passage,  springs 

upward  again  : 
Through  all  symbols  I  search  for  her 

sweetness — in  vain  ! 
Judge  her  love  by  her  life.     For  our 

life  is  but  love 
In  act.     Pure  was  hers :  and  the  dear 

God  above. 
Who  knows  what  His  creatures  have 

need  of  for  life, 
And  whose  love  includes  all  loves, 

through  much  patient  strife 
Led    her   soul  into   peace.      Love, 

though  love  may  be  given 
In  vain,  is  yet  lovely.     Her  own  na- 
tive heaven 
More  clearly  she  mirrored,  as  life's 

troubled  dream 
Wore  away  ;    and  love  sighed  into 

rest,  like  a  stream 
That  breaks  its  heart  over  wild  rocks 
I  toward  the  shore 


Ib2 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 


Of  the  great  sea  wldch  hushes  it  up 
evermore 

With  its  little  wild  wailing.  No 
stream  from  its  source 

Flows  seaward,  how  lonely  soever  its 
course, 

But  what  some  land  is  gladdened. 
No  star  ever  rose 

And  set,  without  influence  some- 
where.    Who  knows 

What  earth  needs  from  earth's  low- 
est creature  ?    No  life 

Can  be  pure  in  its  purpose  and  strong 
in  its  strife 

And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  strong- 
er thereby. 

The  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect 
on  high. 

The  army  of  martyrs  who  stand  by 
the  Throne 

And  gaze  into  the  Face  that  makes 
glorious  their  own. 

Know  this,  surely,  at  last.  Honest 
love,  honest  sorrow, 

Honest  work  for  the  day,  honest  hope 
for  the  moiTow, 


Are  these  worth  nothing  more  than  \ 

the  hand  they  make  weary,  I, 
The  heart  they  have  saddened,  the  \ 

life  they  leave  dreary  ?  \ 

Hush  !  the  sevenfold  heavens  to  the  ' 

voice  of  the  Spirit  , 

Echo  :  He  that  o'ercometh  shall  ail 

things  inherit. 

XLI- 

The  moon  was,  in  fire,  carried  up 

through  the  fog  ; 
The  loud  fortress  barked  at  her  like 

a  chained  dog. 
The  horizon  pulsed  flame,  the    air 

sound.     All  without. 
War  and   winter,  and  twilight,  and 

terror,  and  doubt  ; 
All  within,  ligbt,  warmth,  calm  ! 

In  the  twilight,  long  while 
Eugene    de  Luvoi^    with    a    deep, 

thoughtful  smile 
Lingered,     looking,    and    listening, 

lone  by  the  tent. 
At  last    he    withdrew,  and    night 

closed  as  he  went. 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE 


From  the  river  Euphrates,  the  river  whose  source  is  in  Paradise,  far 
As  red  Egypt, — sole  lord  of  the  land  and  the  sea,  'twixt  the  home  of  the 

star 
That  is  born  in  the  blush  of  the  East,  and  the  porch  of  the  chambers  of 

rest 
Where  the  great  sea  is  girded  with  fire,  and  Orion  returns  in  the  West, 
And  the  ships  come  and  go  in  grand  silence,  — King  Solomon  reigned. 

And  behold, 
In  that  time  there  was  everywhere  silver  as  common  as  stones  be,  and 

gold 
That  for  plenty  was  'counted  as  silver,  and  cedar  as  sycamore-trees 
That  are  found  in  the  vale,  for  abundance.     For  God  to  the  King  gave  all 

these. 
With  glory  exceeding  ;  moreover  all  kings  of  the  earth  to  him  came, 
Because  of   his  wisdom,  to  hear  him.     So  great  was  King  Solomon's 
fame. 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE,  163 


And  for  all  this  the  King's  soul  was  sad.     And  his  heart  said  within 

him,  "Alas  ! 
For  man  dies  !  if  his  glory  abideth,  himself  from  his  glory  shall  pass. 
And  that  which  remaineth  behind  him,  he  seeth  it  not  any  more  : 
For  how  shall  he  know  what  comes  after,  who  knoweth  not  what  Avenl 

before  ? 
I  have  planted  me  gardens  and  vineyards,   and  gotten  me  silver  and 

gold, 
And  mv  hand  from  whatever  my  heart  hath  desired  I  did  not  not  witii- 

hold  : 
And  what  profit  have  I  in  the  works  of  my  hands  which  I  take  not  away  ? 
I  have  searched  out  wisdom  and  knowledge  :    and  what  do  they  nrotit  me, 

they  ? 
As  the  fool  dieth,  so  doth  the  wise.     What  is  gathered  is  scattered  again. 
As  the  breath  of  the  beasts,  even  so  is  the  breath  of  the  children  of  men  : 
And  the  same  thing  befalleth  them  both.     And  not  any  man's  soul  is  his 

own." 

This  he  thought,  as  he  sat  in  his  garden  and  watched  the  great  sun 

going  down 
In  the  glory  thereof  ;  and  the  earth  and  the  sky  by  the  beam  of  the  same 
Were  clothed  with  the  gladness  of  color,  and  bathed  in  the  beauty  of 

flame. 
And  "  Behold,"  said  the  King,  "  in  a  moment  the  glory  shall  vanish  ! " 

Even  then. 
While  he  spake,  he  was  'ware  of  a  man  drawing  near  him,  who  seemed  to 

his  ken 
(By  the  hair  in  its  blaclmess  like  flax  that  is  burned  in  the  hemp-dresser's 

shed, 
And  the  brow's  smoky  hue,  and  the  smouldering  eyeball  more  livid  than 

lead) 
As  the  sons  of  the  land  lies  under  the  sword  of  the  Cherub  whose  wing 
Wraps  in  wrath  the  shut  gateways  of  Paradise.     He,  being  come  to  the 

King, 
Seven  times  made  obeisance  before  him.     To  whom,  "What  art  thou," 

the  King  cried, 
"  That  thus  unannounced  to  King  Solomon  comest  ?"    The  man,  spread- 
ing wide 
The  palm  of  his  right  hand,  showed  in  it  an  apple  yet  bright  from  the 

Tree 
In  whose  stem  springs  the  life  never-failing  which  Sin  lost  to  Adam, 

when  he, 
Tasting  knowledge  forbidden,  found  death  in  the  fruit  of  it.  .  .  .  So  doth 

the  Griver 
Evil  gifts  to  tlie  evil  apportion.     And  *'  Hail  !  let  the  King  live  forever  I" 
Bowing  down  at  the  feet  of  the  monarch,  and  laughingly,  even  as  one 
Whose'  meaning,  in  joy  or  in  jest,  hovers  hid  'twixt  the  word  and   the 

tone. 
Said  the  stranger,  *'  For  lo  ye  "  (and  lightly  he  dropped  in  the  hand  of  the 

Kuig 
T  ivii  an  pie),  "  from  'twixt  the  four  rivers  of  Eden,  God  gave  me  to  bring 


;64  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 


To  his  servant  Eling  Solomon,  even  to  my  lord  that  on  Israel's  throne 
He  hath  'stablisht,  this  fruit  from  the  Tree  in  wliose  branch  Life  abideth  • 

for  none 
Shall  taste  death,  having  tasted  this  apple." 

And  therewith  he  vanished. 

Remained 
In  the  hand  of  the  King  the  life-apple  :  ambrosial  of  breath,  golden-grained, 
Rosy-bright  as  a  star  dipt  in  simset.  The  King  turned  it  o'er,  and  perused 
The  fruit,  which,  alluring  his  lip,  in  his  hand  lay  untasted. 

He  mused, 
"  Life  Is  good  :  but  not  life  in  itself.     Life  eternal,  eternally  young, 
That  were  life  to  be  lived,  or  desired  !     Well  it  were  if  a  man  could  prolong 
The  manhood  that  moves  in  the  muscles,  the  rapture  that  momits  in  the 

brain 
When  life  at  the  prime,  in  the  pastime  of  living,  led  on  by  the  train 
Of  the  jubilant  senses,  exulting  goes  forth,  brave  of  body  and  spirit, 
To  conquer,  choose,  claim,  and  enjoy  what  'twas  born  to  achieve  or  inherit. 
The  dance,  and  the  festal  procession  !  the  pride  in  the  strenuous  play 
Of  the  sinews  that,  pliant  of  power,  the  will,  though  it  wanton,  obey  ! 
When  the  veins  are  yet  wishful,  and  in  them  the  bountiful  impulses  beat, 
When  the  lilies  of  Love  are  yet  living,  the  roses  of  Beauty  yet  sweet  : 
And  the  eye  glows  with  glances  that  kindle,  the  lip  breathes  the  warmth 

that  inspires. 
And  the  hand  hath  yet  vigor  to  seize  the  good  thing  which  the  spirit  desires  I 
O  well  for  the  foot  that  bounds  forward  !  and  ever  the  wind  it  awakes 
Lifts  no  lock  from  the  forehead  yet  white,  not  a  leaf  that  is  withei'ed  yet 

shakes 
From  the  loose  crown  that  laughs  on  young  tresses  !  and  ever  the  earth  and 

the  skies 
Are  crammed  with  audacious  contingencies,  measureless  means  of  surprise  ! 
Life  is  sweet  to  the  young  that  yet  know  not  what  life  ic.     But  life,  after 

Youth, 
The  gay  liar,  leaves  hold  of  the  bauble,  and  Age,  with  his  terrible  truth. 
Pick.,  it  up,  and  perceives  it  is  broken,  and  knows  it  unfit  to  engage 
The  care  it  yet  craves.  .  .  .  Life  eternal,  eternally  wedded  to  Age  ! 
What  gain  were  in  that  ?    Why  should  any  man  seek  what  he  loathes  to 

prolong  ? 
The  twilight  that  darkens  the  eyeball  :  the  dull  ear  that's  deaf  to  the  song, 
When  the  maidens  rejoice  and  the  bride  to  the  bridegroom,  with  music, 

is  led  : 
The  palsy  that  shakes  'neath  the  blossoms  that  fall  from  the  chill  bridal  bed. 
When  the  hand  saith  '  I  did,''  not  '  /  will  do,'  the  heart  saith  '  It  was,'  not 

''Twill  be,' 
Too  late  in  man's  life  is  Forever, — too  late  comes  this  apple  to  me  !" 
Then  the  King  rose.     And  lo,  it  was  evening.     And  leaning,  because  he 

was  old, 
On  the  sceptre  that,  curiously  sculptured  in  ivory  garnished  with  gold, 
To  others  a  rod  of  dominion,  to  him  was  a  staff  for  support. 
Slow  paced  he  the  murmurous  pathvvays  wiicre  myrtles,  in  .oiirt  up  to  court, 
Mixl  with  roses  in  gi'.rden  on  garden,  were  ranged  around  iouucaius  that  fed 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE,  265 


With  cool  music  green  odorous  twilights  :  and  so,  never  lifting  his  head 
To  look  up  from  tlie  way  he  walkwi  wearily,  he  to  the  House  of  his  Pride 
Reiiscended,  and  entered. 

In  cluster,  high  lamps,  spices,  odors,  each  side. 
Burning  inward  and  onward,  from  cinnamon  ceilings,  down  distances  vas! 
Of  voluptuous  vistas,  illumined  deep  halls  through  whose  silentness  passe<l 
King  Solomon  sighing  ;  where  columns  colossal  stood,  gathered  in  grove.s 
As  the  trees  of  the  forest  in  Lihanus, — there  where  the  wind,  as  it  moves, 
Whispers,  "  I,  too,  am  Solomon's  servant  !  " — huge  trunks  nid  in  garlands 

of  gold, 
On  wliose  tops  the  skilled  sculptors  of  Sidon  had  granted  men's  gaze  to 

beliold 
How  the  phcienix  that  sits  on  the  cedar's  lone  summit  'mid  fragrance  and  fire, 
Ever  dying,  and  living,  hath  loaded  with  splendors  her  funeral  pyre  ; 
How  the  stork  builds  her  nest  on  the  pine-top  ;  the  date  from  the  palm- 

l)ranch  depends  ; 
And  the  aloe's  great  blossom  bursts,  crowning  with  beauty  the  life  that  it 

ends.  [eyed, 

And  from  hall  on  to  hall,  in  the  doors,  mute,  magnificent  slaves,  watchful- 
Bowed  to  earth  as  King  Solomon  passed  them.     And,  passing,  King  Solo- 
mon sighed. 
And,  from  hall  on  to  hall  pacing  feebly,  the  king  mused  .  .  .  "  O  fair  Shula- 

mite  ! 
Thy  beauty  is  brighter  than  starlight  on  Hebron  when  Hebron  is  bright, 
Tiiy  sweetness  is  sweeter  than  Carmel.     The  King  rules  the  nations  ;  but 

thou. 
Thou  rulest  the  King,  my  Beloved." 

So  murmured  King  Solomon  low 
To  himself,  as  he  passed  through  the  portal  of  porphyry,  that  dripped,  as 

he  passed 
From  the  myrrh-sprinkled  wreaths  on  the  locks  and  the  lintels  ;  and  en- 
tered at  last. 
Still  sighing,  the  sweet  cedarn  chamber,  contrived  for  repose  and  delight, 
Where  the  beautiful  Shulamite  slimibered.     And  straightway,  to  left  and 

to  right. 
Bowing  down  as  he  entered,  the  Spirits  in  bondage  to  Solomon,  there 
Keeping  watch  o'er  his  love,  sank  their  swords,  spread  their  wings,  and 

evanished  in  air. 
The  King  with  a  kiss  woke  the  sleeper.     And,  showing  the  fruit  in  his  hand, 
"  Behold  !  this  was  brought  me  erewhile  by  one  coming,"  he  said,  "from 

the  land 
That  lies  under  the  sword  of  the  Cherub.     'Twas  pluckt  by  strange  hands 

from  the  Tree 
Of  whose  fruit  whoso  tastes  lives  forever.     And  therefore  I  bring  it  to  thee, 
My  Beloved.     For  thou  of  the  daughters  of  women  are  fairest.     And  lo, 
I,  the  King,  I  that  love  thee,  whom  men  of  u)an's  sons  have  called  wisest, 

I  knov/ 
That  in  knowledge  is  sorrow.     Much  thought  is  much  care.     In  the  beauty 

of  youth, 


3G6  TffE  APPLE  OF  LII^E. 


Not  the  wisdom  of  age,  is  enjoyment.     Nor  spring,  is  it  sweeter,  in  truth, 
Than  winter  to  roses  once  withered.     The  garment,  though  broidered  with 

gold. 
Fades  apace  where  the  moth  frets  the  fibres.     So  I,  in  my  glory,  grow  old. 
And  this  life  maketh  mine  (save  the  bliss  of  my  soul  in  the  beauty  of  thee) 
No  sweetness  so  great  now  that  greatly  unsweet  'twere  to  lose  what  to  me 
Life  prolonged,  at  its  utmost,  can  promise.     But  thine,  O  thou  spirit  of 

bliss. 
Thine  is  all  that  the  living  desire, — youth,  beauty,  love,  joy  in  all  this  ! 
And  O  were  it  not  well  for  the  praise  of  the  world  to  maintain  evermore 
This  mould  of  a  woman,  God's  masterwork,  made  for  mankind  to  adore? 
Wherefore  keep  thou  the  gift  I  resign.     Live  forever,  rejoicing  in  life  ! 
And  of  women  unborn  yet  the  fairest  shall  still  be  King  Solomon's  wife." 
So  he  said,  and  so  dropped  in  her  bosom  the  apple. 

But  when  he  was  gone, 
And  the  beautiful  Shulamite,  eyeing  the  gift  of  the  King,  sat  alone 
With  the  thoughts  the  King's  words  had  awakened,  as  ever  she  turned  and 

perused 
The  fruit  that,  alluring  her  lip,  in  her  hand  lay  untasted — she  mused, 
*'  Life  is  good  ;  but  not  life  in  itself.    So  is  youth,  so  is  beauty.    Mere  stuff 
Are  all  these  for  Love's  usance.     To  live,  it  is  well  ;  bat  it  is  not  enough. 
Well,  too,  to  be  fair,  to  be  young  ;  but  what  good  is  in  beauty  and  youth 
If  the  lovely  and  young  are  not  surer  than  they  that  be  neither,  forsooth, 
Young  nor  lovely,  of  being  beloved  ?    O  my  love,  if  thou  lovest  not  me, 
Shall  I  love  my  own  life  ?    Am  I  fair,  if  not  fair,  Azariah,  to  thee." 
Then  she  hid  in  her  bosom  the  apple.     And  rose. 

And,  reversing  the  ring 
That,  inscribed  with  the  word  that  works  wonders,  and  signed  with  the 

seal  of  the  King, 
Compels  even  spirits  to  obedience— (for  she,  for  a  plaything,  erewhile 
From  King  Solomon's  awful  forefinger,  had  won  it  away  with  a  smile) — 
The  beautiful  Shulamite  folded  her  veil  o'er  her  forehead  and  eyes. 
And  unseen  from  the  sweet  cedarn  chamber,  unseen  through  the  long 

galleries. 
Unseen  from  the  palace,  she  passed,  and  passed  down  to  the  city  unseen. 
Unseen  passed  the  green  garden  wicket,  the  vineyard,  the  cypresses  green, 
And  stood  by  the  doors  of  the  house  of  the  Prince  Azariah.     And  cried, 
in  the  darkness  she  cried, — "  Azariah,  awaken  !  ope,  ope  to  me  wide  ! 
Ope  the  door,  ope  the  lattice  !    Arise  !    Let  me  in,  O  my  love  !    It  is  L 
I,  the  bride  of  King  Solomon,  love  thee.     Love,  tarry  not.     Love,  shall  I 

die 
At  thy  doors  ?    I  am  sick  of  desire.     For  my  love  is  more  comely  than 

gold. 
More  precious  to  me  is  my  love  than  the  throne  of  a  king  that  is  old. 
Behold,  I  have  passed  through  the  city,  unseen  of  the  watchmen.     I  stand 
By  the  doors  of  the  house  of  my  love,  till  my  love  lead  me  in  by  tlie  hand." 
Azariah  arose.     And  unbolted  the  door  to  the  fair  Shulamite. 
*'  O  my  queen,  what  dear  folly  is  this,  that  hath  led  tliee  alone,  ajuj  b"" 

aight, 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  167 


To  the  house  of  King  Solomon's  sei'vant  ?    Por  lo  you,  the  watchmen 

awake. 
And  much  for  my  own,  O  my  queen,  must  I  fear,  and  much  more  for  thy 

sake. 
For  at  that  which  is  done  in  the  chamber  the  leek  on  the  house-top  shall 

peep  : 
And  the  hand  of  a  king  it  is  heavy  :  the  eyes  of  a  king  never  sleep  : 
But  the  bird  of  the  air  beareth  news  to  the  king,  and  the  stars  of  the  sky 
Are  as  soldiers  by  night  on  the  turrets.      I  fear,  O  my  queen,  lest  we  die." 
"  Fear  thou  not,  O  my  love  !    Azariah,  fear  nothing.     For  lo,  what  I 

bring  ! 
'Tis  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  that  in  Paradise  God  hideth  under  the  wing 
Of  the  Cherub  that  chased  away  Adam.     And  whoso  this  apple  doth  eat 
Shall  live — live  forever  I    And  since  imto  me  my  own  life  is  less  sweet 
Than  thy  love,  Azariah,  (sweet  only  my  life  is  if  thou  lovest  me  ! ) 
Therefore  eat  !    Live,  and  love,  for  life's  sake,  still,  the  love  that  gives 

life  unto  thee  !" 
Then  she  held  to  his  lips  the  life-apple,  and  kissed  him. 

But  soon  as  alone, 
Azariah  leaned  out  from  his  lattice,  he  muttered,  "  'Tis  well  I    She  is 

gone." 
While  the  fruit  in  his  hand  lay  untasted.    ''  Such  visits,"  he  mused,  "  may 

cost  dear. 
In  the  love  of  the  great  is  great  danger,  much  trouble,  and  care  more  than 

cheer." 
Then  he  laughed  and  stretched  forth  his  strong  arms.     For  he  heard  from 

the  streets  of  the  city 
The  song  of  the  women  that  sing  in  the  doors  after  dark  their  love  ditty. 
And  the  clink  of  the  wine-cup,  the  voice  of  the  wanton,  the  tripping  of 

feet, 
And  the  laughter  of  youths  rmining  after,  allured  him.     And  "  X^e,  it  ia 

sweet 
While  it  laats,^^  sang  the  women,  **  and  sweeter  the  goodminutey  in  that 

it  goes. 
For  who,  if  the  rose  bloomed  forever,  so  greatly  would  care  for  the  rose  / 
Wherefore  haste !  pluck   the  three  in  the  blossom.^^    The  prince  mused, 

"  The  counsel  is  well.'' 
And  the  fruit  to  his  lips  he  uplifted  :  vet  paust^d.     "  Who  is  he  that  can 

tell 
What  his  days  shall  bring  forth  ?    Life  forever  .  .  .  But  what  sort  of  life  ? 

Ah,  the  doubt  !  " 
'Neath  his  cloak  then  he  thrust  back  the  apple.     And  opened  the  door  and 

passed  out 
Tc  the  house  of  the  harlot  Egyptian.     And  mused,  as  he  went,  "  Life  is 

good  : 
But  not  life  in  itself.     It  is  well  while  the  wine-cup  is  hot  in  the  blood. 
And  a  man  goeth  whither  he  listeth,  and  doeth  the  thing  that  he  will. 
And  liveth  his  life  as  he  lusteth,  and  taketh  in  freedom  his  fill 
Of  the  pleasure  that  pleaseth  his  huuior,  and  feareth  no  snare  by  the  way. 
Shall  I  care  to  be  loved  by  a  queen,  if  my  pride  with  my  freedom  1  pay  ? 


l68  ■  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 


Better  far  is  a  handful  in  quiet  tlian  both  hands,  though  filled  to  o'erflow 
M'ith  pride,  in  vexation  of  spirit.     And  sweeter  the  roses  that  blow 
From  the  wild  seeds  the  wind,  where  he  wanders,  with  heedless  benefi- 
cence flings, 
Than  those  that  are  guarded  by  dragons  to  brighten  the  gardens  of  kings. 
Let  a  man  take  his  chance,  and  be  happy.     The  hart  by  the  hunter  pur- 
sued, t 
That  far  from  the  herd  on  the  hill-top  bounds  swift  through  the  blue 

solitude, 
Is  more  to  be  envied,  though  Death  with  his  dart  follow  fast  to  destroy, 
Than  the  tame  beast  that,  pent  in  the  paddock,  tastes  neither  the  danger 

nor  joy 
Of  the  mountain,  and  all  its  surprises.     The  main  thing  is,  not  to  live 

But  to  lite.     Better  moments  of  rapture  soon  ended  than  ages  of  wrong. 
Life's  feast  is  best  spiced  by  the  flavor  of  death  in  it.     Just  the  one  chance 
To  lose  it  to-morrow  the  life  that  a  man  lives  to-day  doth  enhance. 
The  may-be  for  me,  not  the  must-be  !    Best  flourish  while  flourish  the 

flowers, 
And  fall  ere  the  frost  falls.     The  dead,  do  they  rest  or  arise  with  new 

powers  ? 
Either  way,  well  for  them.     Mine,  meanwhile,  be  the  cup  of  life's  fulness 

to-night. 
And  to-morrow  .  .  .  Well,    time  to  consider"    (he  felt  at  the  fruit). 

''  What  delight 
Of  his  birthright  had  Esau,  when  hungry  ?    To-day  with  its  pottage  is 

sweet. 
For  a  man  cannot  feed  and  be  full  on  the  faitli  of  to-morrow's  baked 

meat. 
Open  I  open,  my  dark-eyed  beguiler  of  darkness. 

Up  rose  to  his  knock. 
Light  of  foot,  the  lascivious  Egyptian,  and  lifted  the  latch  from  the  lock, 
And  opened.     And  led  in  the  prince  to  her  chamber,  and  shook  out  her 

hair, 
Park,  heavy,  and  humid  with  odors  ;  her  bosom  beneath  it  laid  bare. 
And  sleek  sallow  shoulder  ;  and  sloped  back  her  face,  as,  v/hen  falls  the 

slant  South 
In  wet  whispers  of  rain,  flowers  bend  back  to  catch  it  ;  so  she,  with  shut 

mouth 
Half-unfolded  for  kisses  ;  and  sank,  as  they  fell,  'twixt  his  knees,  with  a 

laugh, 
On  the  floor,  in  a  flood  of  deep  hair  flung  behind  her  full  throat ;  held  him 

half  [lay, 

Aloof  with  one  large,  languid  arm,  while  the  other  uppropped,  where  she 
Limbs  flowing  in  fulness  and  lucid  in  surface  as  waters  at  play. 
Though  in  firmness  as  slippery  marble.     Anon  she  sprang  loose  from  his 

clasp, 
And  whirled  from  the  table  a  flagon  of  silver  twined  round  by  an  asp 
That  glittered, — rough  gold  and  red  rubies  ;  and  poured  him,  and  praise^ 

him,  tlie  wine 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  1O9 


Where-v^ith  she  first  brightened  the  moist  ]ip  that  murraured,  "Ha,  fool  1 

art  thou  mine  ? 
I  am  thine.     This  will  last  for  an  hour."     Then,  humming  strange  words 

of  a  song, 
Sung  by  maidens  in  Memphis  the  old,  when  they  bore  the  Crowned  Image 

along, 
Apples  yellow  and  red  from  a  basket  with  vine-leaves  o'erlaid  she  'gan  take, 
And  played  with,  peeled,  tost  them,  and  caught  them,  and  bit  them,  for 

idleness'  sake  ; 
But  the  rinds  on  the  floor  she  flung  from  her,  and  laughed  at  the  figures 

they  made, 
As  her  foot  pusht  them  this  way  and  that  way  together.     And  "  Look, 

fool,"  she  said, 
"It  is  all  sour  fruit,  this  !    But  those  I  fling  from  me, — see  here  by  the 

stain  ! — 
Shall  carry  the  mark  of  my  teeth  in  their  flesh.     Could  they  feel  but  the 

pain, 
O  my  soul,  how  these  teeth  should  go  through  them  !    Fool,  fool,  what 

good  gift  dost  thou  bring  ? 
For  thee  have  I  sweetened  Mith  cassia  my  chambers."     "  A  gift  for  a  king," 
Azariah  laughed  loud  ;  and  tost  to  her  the  apple.     "  This  comes  from  the 

Tree 
Of  whose  fruit  whoso  tastes  lives  forever.     I  care  not.     I  give  it  to  thee. 
Nay,  witch  !  'tis  worth  more  than  the  shekels  of  gold  thou  hast  charmed 

from  my  purse. 
Take  it.    Eat,  and  thank  me  for  the  meal,  witch  !  for  Eve,  thy  sly  mother, 

fared  worse, 
O  thou  white-toothe'd  taster  of  apples  ?"     "  Thou  liest,  fool  !"     "  Taste, 

then,  and  try. 
For  the  truth  of  the  fruit's  in  the  eating.     'Tis  thou  art  the  serpent,  not  I." 
And  the  strong  man  laughed  loud  as  he  pushed  at  her  lip  the  life-apple. 

She  caught 
And  held  it  away  from  her,  musing  ;  and  muttered  ...  "Go  to  1    It  is 

naught. 
Fool,  why  dost  thou  laugh  ? "     And  he  answered,  "  Because,  witch,  it 

tickles  my  brain 
Intensely  to  think  that  all  we,  that  be  Something  while  yet  we  remain. 
We,  the  princes  of  people, — ay,  even  the  King's  self, — shall  die  in  our  day, 
And  thou,  that  art  Nothing,  shalt  sit  on  our  graves,  with  our  grandsons^ 

and  play." 
So  he  said,  and  laughed  louder. 

But  when,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  he  was  gone. 
And  the  wan   light  waxed  large  in  the  window,  as  she  on  her  bed  sat 

alone. 
With  the  fruit  that,  alluring  her  lip,  in  her  hand  lay  untasted,  perusing, 
Perplext,  the  gay  gift  of  the  Prince,  the  dark  woman  thereat  fell  a  musing. 
And  she  thought  .  .  .   ''  What  is  Life  without  Honor  ?    And  what  can  the 

life  that  I  live 
Give  to  me.  I  shall  care  to  continue,  not  caring  for  aught  it  can  give  ? 
I,  despising  the  fools  that  despise  me, — a  plaything  not  pleasing  myself,— 
Whose  life,  for  the  pelf  that  maintains  it,  must  sell  what  is  paid  not  tjy 

pelf  I 


170  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 


glory  must  go, 
And  why  should  I  linger,  whose  life  leadeth  nowhere  ? — a  life  which  I 

know 
To  name  is  to  shame — struck,  unsexed,  by  the  world  from  its  list  of  the 

lives 
Of  the  women  whose  womanhood,  saved,  gets  them  leave  to  be  mothers 

and  wives. 
And  the  fancies  of  men  change.     And  bitterly  bought  is  the  bread  that  II 

eat  ; 
For,  though  purchased  with  body  and  spirit,  when  purchased  'tis  yet  alii 

unsweet." 
Her  tears  fell  :  they  fell  on  the  apple.     She  sighed  ..."  Sour  fruit,  like 

the  rest  ! 
Let  it  go  with  the  salt  tears  upon  it.    Yet  life  ...  it  were  sweet  if  pos- 
sessed 
In  the  power  thereof,  and  the  beauty.     '  A  gift  for  a  king  *  .  .  .  did  he 


say 


Ay,  a  king's  life  is  a  life  as  it  should  be, — a  life  like  the  light  of  the  day. 
Wherein  all  that  liveth  rejoiceth.     For  is  not  the  King  as  the  sun 
That  shineth  in  heaven  and  seemeth  both  heaven  and  itself  all  in  one  ? 
Then  to  whom  may  this  fruit,  the  life-giver,  be  worthily  given  ?    Xot  me. 
Nor  the  fool  Azariah  that  sold  it  for  folly.     The  King  !  only  he, — 
Only  he  hath  the  life  that's  worth  living  forever.     Whose  life,  not  alone 
Is  the  life  of  the  King,  but  the  life  of  the  many  made  mighty  in  one. 
To  the  King  will  I  carry  this  apple.     And  he  (for  the  hand  of  a  king 
Is  a  fountain  of  hope)  in  his  handmaid  shall  honor  the  gift  that  I  bring. 
And  men  for  this  deed  shall  esteem  me,  with  Rahab  by  Israel  praised, 
As  first  among  those  who,  though  lowly, .  their  shame  into  honor  have 

raised  : 
Such  honor  as  lasts  when  life  goes,  and,  while  life  lasts,  shall  lift  it  above 
What,  if  loved  by  the  many  I  loathe,  must  be  loathed  by  the  few  I  con  Id 

love." 

So  she  rose,  and  went  forth  tlirough  the  city.    And  with  her  the  apple  she 

bore 
In  her  bosom  :  and  stood  'mid  the  multitude,  waiting  therewith  in  the 

door 
Of  the  hall  where  the  King,  to  give  judgment,  ascended  at  morning  his 

throne  : 
And,  kueeling  there,  cried,  *"  Let  the  King  live  forever  !    Behold,  T  am 

one  , 

Whom  the  vile  of  themselves  count  the  vilest.     But  great  is  the  grace  of  my 

lord. 
And  now  let  my  lord  on  his  handmaid  look  down,  and  give  ear  to  her 

word." 
Thereat,  in  the  witness  of  all,  she  drew  forth,  and  (uplifting  her  head) 
Showed  the  Apple  of  Life,  which  who  tastes,  tastes  not  death.     "  And  this 

apple,"  she  said, 
"  Last  night  was  delivered  to  me,  that  thy  servant  should  eat,  and  not  di«. 
But  I  baid  to  the  soul  of  thy  servant,  '  Not  so.    For  behold,  what  am  I  ? 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  171 


That  the  King,  \n  his  glory  and  gladness,  should  cease  from  the  light  of  the 

sun, 
Whiles  I,  that  am  least  of  his  slaves,  in  my  shame  and  abasement  live  on.' 
For  not  sweet  is  the  life  of  thy  sei-vant,  imless  to  thy  servant  my  lord 
Stretch  his  "hand,  and  show  favor.     For  surely  the  frown  of  a  king  is  a 

sword. 
But  the  smile  of  the  King  is  as  honey  that  flows  from  the  clefs  of  the 

rock, 
And  his  qracc  is  as  dew  that  from  Horeb  descends  on  the  heads  of  the 

flock  : 
In  the  King  is  the  heart  of  a  host  :  the  King's  strength  is  an  army  of  men  : 
And  the  wratli  of  the  King  is  a  lion  that  roareth  by  night  from  liis  den  : 
But  as  grapes  from  the  vines  of  En-Gedi  are  favors  that  fall  from  his 

hands. 
And  as  towers  on  the  hill-tops  of  Shenir  the  throne  of  King  Solomon 

stands. 
And  for  this,  it  were  well  that  forever  the  King,  who  is  many  in  one, 
Should  sit,  to  be  seen  through  all  time,  on  3  throne  'twixt  the  moon  and 

the  sun  ! 
For  how  shall  one  lose  what  he  hath  not  ?    Who  hath,  let  him  keep  whai 

he  hath. 
Wherefore  I  to  the  King  give  this  apple.' 

Then  great  was  King  Solomon's  wrath. 
And   he  rose,  rent  his  garment,  and  cried,  ''Woman,  whence  came  this 

apple  to  thee  ?" 
But  when  he  was  'ware  of  the  truth,  then  his  heart  was  awakened.     And  he 
Knew  at  once  that  the  man  v/ho,  erewhile,  unawared  coming  to  him,  hiu 

brought 
That  Apple  of  Life  was,  indeed,  God's  good  Angel  of  Death.    And  he 

thought 
"  In  mercy,  I  doubt  not,  when  man's  eyes  were  opened,  and  made  to  see 

plain 
All  the  wrong  in  himself,  and  the  wretchedness,  God  sent  to  close  them 

again 
For  man's  sake,  his  last  friend  upon  earth — Death,  the  servant  of  God,  who 

is  just. 
Let  man's  spirit  to  Him  whence  it  cometh  return,  and  his  dust  to  the 

dust  I" 

Then  the  Apple  of  Life  did  King  Solomon  seal  in  an  urn  that  wtts  sigi:iod 
With  the  seal  of  Oblivion  :  and  summoned  the  Spirits  that  walk  in  the 

vv'ind 
Unseen  on  the  summits  of  mountains,  where  never  the  eagle  yet  flew  ; 
And  these  he  commanded  to  bear  far  away, — out  of  reach,  out  of  view. 
Out  of  hope,  out  of  memory, — higher  than  Ararat  buildcth  his  throne; 
In  the  Urn  of  Oblivion  the  Apple'  of  Life. 

But  on  green  jasper-stone 
Did  the  King  write  the  story  thereof  for  instniction.     And  Enoch,  the  seer, 
Coming  afterward,  searched  out  the  meaning.     And  he  that  hath  esre,  let 
hiia  hear. 


THE    WANDERER 


DEDICATION. 
To  J.  F. 


Ab,  in  the  laurel's  murmurous  leaves 
'Twas  fabled,  once,  a  Virgin  dwelt; 
Within  the  poet's  page  yet  heaves 
The  poet's  Heart,  and  loves  or  grieves 
Or  triumphs,  as  it  felt. 

A  human  spirit  here  records 

The  annals  of  its  human  strife. 
A  human  hand  hath  touched  these 

chords. 
These  songs  may  all  be  idle  words  : 
And  yet — they  once  were  life. 

I  gave  my  harp  to  Memory, 
yhe  sung  of  hope,  when  hope  v/as 
young, 
Of  youth,  as  youth  no  more  may  be ; 
And,  since  she  sung  of  youth,  to 
thee, 
Friend  of  my  youth,  she  sung. 

For   all  youth   seeks,  all  manhood 
needs, 
All    youth    and   manhood    rarely 
find  : 
A  strength  more  strong  than  codes 

or  creeds. 
In  lofty  thoughts  and  lovely  deeds 
Kevealed  to  heart  and  mind  ; 

A  staff  to  stay,  a  star  to  guide  ; 

A  spell  to  soothe,  a  power  to  raise ; 
A  faith  by  fortmie  firmly  tried  ; 
A  judgment  resolute  to  preside 
O'er  days  at  strife  with  days. 


O  large  in  lore,  in  nature  sound  I 
O  man  to  me,  of  all  men,  dear  I 
All  these  in  thine  my  life  hath  found,  ^ 
And  force  to  tread  the  rugged  gromid .[ 
Of  daily  toil,  with  cheer. 

Accept — not  these,  the  broken  cries 

Of  days  receding  far  from  me — 
But  all  the  love  that  in  them  lies, 
The  man's  heart  in  the  melodies, 
The  man's  heart  honoring  thee  I ! 

Sighing  I  sung  ;  for  some  sublime 
Emotion  made  my  music  jar  : 
The  forehead  of  this  restless  time 
Pales  in  a  fervid,  passionate  clime, 
Lit  by  a  changeful  star  ; 

And  o'er  the  Age's  threshold,  traced 

In  characters  of  hectic  fire. 
The  name  of  that  keen,  fervent-faced 
And  toiling  seraph,  hath  been  placed, 
Which  men  have  called  Desire. 

But  thou  art  strong  where,  even  of 
old. 
The  old  heroic  strength  was  rare, 
In  high  emotions  self-controlled, 
And  insight  keen,  but  never  cold, 
To  lay  all  falsehood  bare  ; 

Despising  all  those  glittering  lies 
Which  in  these  days  can  fool  man" 
kind  ; 
But  full  of  noble  sympathies 
For  what  is  genuinely  wise. 
And  beautiful,  and  kiu4. 


THE  WANDERER. 


^73 


Atkj  thou  wilt  pardon  all  the  much 
Of    weakness    which    doth    here 
abound, 
Till  music,  little  prized  as  such, 
With  thee  find  worth  from  one  true 
touch 
Of  nature  in  its  sound. 

Though  mighty  spirits  are  no  more, 
Yet  spirits  of  beauty  still  remain. 
Gone  is  the  Seer  that,  by  the  shore 
Of  lakes  as  Umpid  as  his  lore. 
Lived  to  one  ceaseless  strain 

And  strenuous  melody  of  mind. 
But  one  there  rests  that  hath  the 
power  [bind 

To  chai-m  the  midnight  moon,  and 
All  spirits  of  the  sweet  south-wind, 
And  steal  from  every  shower 

That  sweeps  green  England  cool  and 
clear. 
The  violet  of  tender  song. 
Great  Alfred  !  long  may  England's 

ear 
Plis  music  fill,  his  name  be  dear 
To  English  bosoms  long  ! 

And    one   .    .    .    in    sacred    silence 
sheathed 
That  name  I  keep,  my  verse  would 
shame. 
The  name  my  lips  in   prayer  first 

breathed 
Was  his  :   and  prayer  hath  yet  be- 
queathed 
Its  silence  to  that  name  ; — 

tVliich  yet  an  age  remote  shall  hear, 
Borne  on  the  fourfold  wind  sub- 
lime 
By  Fame,  where,  with  some  faded 

year 
These  songs  shall  sink,  like  leaflets 
sere. 
In  avenues  of  Time. 

Tjove  on  my  harp  his  finger  lays  ; 
ITis    hand    is    held    against    the 
chords. 
My  lieart  upon  the  music  weighs, 
And,  boating,  laish.es  foolish  praise 
?rom  desultory  words  : 


And  Childhood  steals,  with  wistful 
grace, 
'Twixt  him  and   me  ;   an   mfant 
hand  [chaso 

Chides  gently  back  the  thoughts  that 
The  forward   hour,   and  turns   my 
face 
To  that  remembered  land 

Of  legend,  and  the  Summer  sky, 

And  all  the  wild  Welsh  waterfalls, 
And  haunts  where  he,   and   thou, 

and  I 
Once  wandered  with  the  wandering 
Wye, 
And  scaled  the  airy  walls 

Of  Chepstow,  from  whose   ancient 

height 

We  watched  the   liberal  sun   go 

down  ;  [night, 

Then  onward,  through  the  gradual 

Till,  ere  the  moon  was  fully  bright. 

We  supped  m  Monmouth  Town. 

And   though,  dear  fi-iend,  thy  love 

retains 

The  choicest  sons  of  song  in  fee, 

To  thee  not  less  I  pour  these  strains, 

Knowing  that  in  thy  heart  remains 

A  little  place  for  me. 

Nor  wilt  thou  all  forget  the  time 
Though  it  be  past,  in  which  to- 
gether, 
On  many  an  eve,  with  many  a  rhyme 
Of  old  and  modern  bards  sublime 
We  soothed  the  summer  weather . 

And,  citing  all  he  said  or  sung 
With  praise  reserved  for  bards  like 

him, 
Spake    of    that  friend  who   dwells 

among 
The  Apennine,  and  there  hath  strung 
%       A  harp  of  Anakim  ; 

Than  whom  a  mightier masternever 
Touched  the  deep  chords  of  hid- 
den tilings  ; 
Nor  error  did  from  truth  dissever 
With  keener  glance  .;  nor  made  en- 
deavor 
To  rise  on  bolder  win^ 


THE  WANDERER, 


174 

, ■ -1, 

In  those  higli  regions  of  the  soul        !  The  darkness  round  me,   and  th<|' 

Where  thought  itself  grows  dim  I  dew.  i 

with  awe.  And  my  pale  Muse  doth  fold  hej^j 

But  now  the  star  of  eve  hath  stole      i  eyes.  | 

Through  the  deep  simset,  and  the  ■  Adieu,  my  friend  ;  my  guide,  adieu  r 

whole  I  May  never  night,  'twixt  me  and  youj 

Of  heaven  begins  to  draw  |         With  thoughts  less  fond  arise  1 1 

Flobence,  September  24,  1857.  ,  I'HE  AUTHOB. 


PROLOGUE. 


PART  I. 

Sweet  are  the  rosy  memories  of  the 
lips, 
That  first  kissed  ours,  albeit  they 
kiss  no  more  : 
Sweet  is  the  sight  of  sunset-sailing 
ships, 
Although  they  leave  us  on  a  lonely 
shore  : 
Sweet  ai-e    familiar   songs,   though 
Music  dips 
Her  hollow  shell  in  Thought's  for- 

lornest  wells  : 
And  sweet,  though  sad,  the  sound 
of  midnight  bells. 
When  the  oped  casement  with  the 
.night-rain  drips. 

There  is  a  pleasure  which  is  born  of 
pain  : 
The  grave  of  all  things  hath  its 
violet. 
Else  why,  through  days  which  never 
come  again. 
Roams   Hope   with  that    strange 
longing,  like  Regret  ? 
VVhy  put  the  posy  in  the  cold  dead 
hand  ? 
Why  plant    the    rose    above  the 

lonely  grave  ? 
Why  bring  the  corpse  across  the 
salt  sea-wave  ? 
Wliy  deem  the  dead  more  near  in 
native  land  ?  life 

Thy  name  hath  been  a  silence  in  my 
So  long,  it  falters  upon  language 
now. 


0  more  to  me  than  sister  or  thai 

wife 
Once  .  .  .  and  now — nothing  I    I . 

is  hard  to  know  ' 

That  such  things  have  been,  and  arci 

not,  and  yet 
Life  loiters,  keeps  a  pulse  at  ever 

measure. 
And  goes  upon  its  business  and  itsi 

pleasure, 
And  knows  not  all  the  depths  of  itiJ 

regi-et. 

Thou  art  not  in  thy  picture,  O  mj 
friend  ! 
The  years  are  sad  and  many  since/ 
I  saw  thee. 
And  seem  with  me  to  have  survived' 
their  end. 
Far  otherwise  than  thus  did  mem-i 
ory  draw  thee 

1  ne'er  shall  know  thee  other  than 

thou  wast. 
Yet  save,   indeed,  the  same  sad 

eyes  of  old, 
And  that  abundant  hair's  warm 

silken  gold. 
Thou  art  changed,  if  this  be  like  the; 

look  thou  hast. 

Changed  !    There  the  epitaph  of  aE' 

the  years 

Was  sounded  I    I  am  changed  too.)i 

Let  it  be.  I 

Yet  it  is  sad  to  know  my  latest  teargfi 

Were  faithful  to  a  memory, — not' 

to  thee. 


THE  WANDERER. 


175 


N'^hlnc:  is   left  us  I   nothing — ^save' 
the  soul. 
Yet  even  the  immortal  in  us  alters 

too. 
Who  is  it  his  old  sensations  can 
renew  ? 
Slowly  the  seas  are  changed.     Slow 
ages  roll 

The  mountains  to  a  level.     Nature 
sleeps, 
And    dreams  her  dream,   and  to 
new  work  awakes 
After  a  hundred  years  are  in  the 
deeps. 
But    Man    is    changed    before    a 
wrinkle  breaks 
The  brow's  sereneness,  or  the  curls 
are  gray. 
We  stand  within  the  flux  of  sense : 

the  near 
And  far  change  place  :  and  we  see 
nothing  clear. 
That's  false  to-morrow  which  was 
true  to-day. 

All,  could  the  memory  cast  her  spots, 
as  do 
The  snake's  brood  theirs  in  spring! 
and  be  once  more 
Wliolly  renewed,  to  dwell  i'  the  time 
that's  new, 
With  no  reiterance  of  those  pangs 
of  yore. 
Peace,  peace  !    My  wild  song  will  go 
wandering 
Too  wantonly,  down  paths  a  pri- 
vate pain 
Hath  trodden  bare.     What  waa  it 
jarred  the  strain  ? 
Some  crusht  illusion,  left  with  cnim- 
pled  wing 

Tangled  in   Music's  web  of  twined 
strings — 
That  started  that  false  note,  and 
cracked  the  tune 
In    its    beginning.      Ah,    forgotten 
things 
Stuiiibie  back  strangely  I  And  the 
ghost  of  June 


Stands  by  December's  fire,  cold,  cold: 
and  puts 
The  last  spark  out. 

How  could  I  sing  aright 
With  those  old  airs  haunting  me  ail 

the  night 
And  those  old  steps  that  sound  when 
daylight  shuts  ? 

For  back  she  comes,  and  moves  re- 
proachfully. 
The  mistress  of  my  moods,   and 
looks  bereft 
(Cruel  to  the  last  !)  as  though  'twere 
I,  not  she. 
That  did  the  wrong,  and  broke  the 
spell,  and  left 
Memory  comfortless. 

Away  !  away  ! 
Phantoms,  about  whose  brows  the 

bindweed  clings. 
Hopeless  regret  ! 

In  thinking  of  these  things 
Some   men  have  lost   their  minds, 
and  others  may. 

Yet,  O,  for  one  deep  draught  in  this 
dull  hour  ! 
One  deep,  deep  draught  of  the  de- 
parted time  ; 
O,  for  one  brief  strong  pulse  of  an- 
cient power. 
To  beat  and  breathe  through  aij 
the  valves  of  rhyme  ! 
Thou,  Memory,  with  the  downwai'i 
eyes,  that  art 
The  cupbearer  of  gods,  pour  deep 

and  long, 
Brim  all  the  vacant  chalices   of 
song 
With  health  1     Droop  down  thine 
m-n. 

I  hold  my  heart. 
One  draught  of   what  I  shall  not 
taste  again. 
Save  when  my  brain  with  thy  dark 
wine  is  brimmed, — 
One  draught  !  and  then  straight  on- 
ward, spile  of  pain, 
And  spite  of  ail  things  changed, 
with  gaze  undimmed, 


t'j6 


THE  WANDEREk. 


Love's  footsteps  through  the  waning 
Past  to  explore 
Undaunted  ;  and  to  carve,  in  the 

wan  light 
Of  Hope's  last  outposts,  on  Song's 
utmost  height 
The  sad  resemblance  of  an  hour  no 
more. 

Midnight,  and  love,  and  youth,  and 
Italy  ! 
Love  in  the  land  where  love  most 
lovely  seems  ! 
Land  of  my  love,  though  I  be  far 
from  thee. 
Lend,  for  love's  sake,  the  light  of 
thy  moonbeams, 
The  spirit  of  thy  cypress-groves,  and 
all 
Thy  dark-eyed  beauty,  for  a  little 

while 
To  my  desire.    Yet  once  more  let 
her  smile 
Fall  o'er  me  :  o'er  me  let  her  long 
hair  fall, 

The  lady  of  my  life,  whose  lovely 
eyes 
Dreaming,  or  waking,  Im-e  me.     I 
shall  know  her 
By  Love's  own  planet  o'er  her  in  the 
skies, 
And  Beauty's  blossom  in  the  grass 
below  her  ! 
Dreaming,  or  waking,  in  her  soft, 
sad  gaze 
Let  luy  heart  bathe,  as  on  that 

fated  night 
I  saw  her,  when  my  life  took  in 
the  sight 
Of  her  sweet  face  for  all   its  nights 
and  days. 

Her  winsome  head  was  bare  :  and 
she  had  twined 
Through  its  rich  curls   wild  red 
anemones  ; 
One  stream  of  her  soft  hair  strayed 
unconfined 
Down  hei-  ripe  cheek,  and  shad- 
owed her  deep  eyes. 


The  bunch  of  sword-grass  fell  frora 
her  loose  hand. 
Her  modest  foot  beneath  its  snowy 

skirt 
Peeped,  and  the  golden  daisy  was 
not  hurt. 
Stately,  yet  slight,  she  stood,  as  fair- 
ies stand. 

Under  the  blessed  darkness   unro- 
proved 
We  were  alone,  in  that  blest  hour 
of  time. 
Which  first  revealed  to  us  how  much 
we  loved, 
'Neath  the  thick  starlight.     The 
young  night  sublime 
jJung  trembling  o'er  us.     At   her 
feet  I  knelt. 
And  gazed  up  from  her  feet  into 

her  eyes. 
Her  face  was  bowed  :  we  breathed 
each  other's  sighs  : 
We  did  not  speak  :   not  move  :   we 
looked  :  we  felt. 

The  night  said  not  a  word.      The 
breeze  w  as  dead. 
The  leaf  lay  without  whispering 
on  the  tree. 
As  I  lay  at  her  feet.    Droopt  was  her 
head  : 
One  hand  in  mine  :  and  one  still 
pensively 
Went  wandering  through  my  hair, 
We  were  together. 
How  ?    Where  ?    What    matter  ? 

Somewhere  in  a  dream. 
Drifting,   slow    drifting,   down   a 
wizard  stream  : 
Whither  ?     Together  :    then    what 
matter  whither  ? 

It  was  enough  for  me  to  clasp  her 
hand  ' 
To  blend  with  her  love-looks  my 
own  :  no  more. 
Enough   (with    thoughts  like  ships 
that  cannot  land. 
Blown    by    faint   winds   about  a 
magic  shore) 


THK  WANDERER, 


177 


To  realize,  in  each  mysterious  feel- 

The  droop  of  the  warm  cheek  so 

near  ray  own  : 
The    cool   white   ann    about    my 
shoulder  thrown  ; 
Those  exquisite  frail  feet,  where  I 
was  kneeling. 

How  little  know  they  life's  divinest 
bliss, 
That  know  not  to  possess  and  yet 
refrain  ! 
Let  the  young  Psyche  roam,  a  fleet- 
ing kiss  : — 
Grasp  It — a  few  poor  grains  of  dust 
remain. 
See  how  those  floating  flowers,  the 
butterflies, 
Hover   the  garden  through,   and 

take  no  root  ! 
Desire  forever  hath  a  flying  foot. 
Free  pleasure   comes  and  goes  be- 
neath the  skies. 

Close  not  thy  hand  upon  the  inno- 
cent joy 
That  tmsts  itself  within  thy  reach. 
It  may. 
Or  may  not,  linger.     Thou  canst  but 
destroy 
The  winge'd  wanderer.     Let  it  go 
or  stay. 
Love  thou  the  rose,  yet  leave  it  on 
,its  stem. 
Think  !  Midas  starved  by  turning 

all  to  gold. 
Blesse'd  are  those  that  spare,  and 
that  withhold. 
Because    the  whole  world  shall  be 
trusted  then. 

The  foolish  Farm  pursues  the  unwil- 
Ung  Nymph 
That  culls  her  flowers  beside  the 
precipice. 
Or  dips  her  shining  ankles  iu  the 
lymph  : 
But,  just  when  she  must  perish  or 
be  his. 
Heaven  puts  an  arm  ouL     She  is 
safe.     The  shore 
12 


Gains  some  new  fountain  ;  or  the 

liliod  lawn 
A  rarer  sort  of  rose  :  but,  ah,  poor 

Faun  ! 
To  thee  she  shall  be  changed  for- 

evermore. 

Chase  not  too  close  the  fading  rap- 
ture.    Leave  [seen. 
To  Love  his  long  auroras,  slowly 
Be  ready  to  release,  as  to  receive. 
Deem  those  the  nearest,  soul  to 
soul,  between 
Whose  lips  yet  lingers  reverence  on 
a  sigh. 
Judge  what  thy  sense  can  reach 

not,  most  thine  own. 
If  once  thy  soul  hath  seized  it. 
The  unknown 
Is  life  to  love,  religion,  poetry. 

The  moon  had  set.     There  was  not 
any  light, 
Save  of  the  lonely  legioned  watch- 
stars  pale  [brigiit 
In  outer  air,  and  what  by  fits  made 

Hot  oleanders  in  a  rosy  vale 
Searched  by  the  lamping  fly,  whose 
little  spark 
Went  in   and  out,   like  passion's 

bashful  hope. 
Meanwhile  the  sleepy  globe  began 
to  slope 
A     ponderous     shoulder     sunward 
through  the  dark. 

And  the  night  passed  in  beauty  like 
a  dream. 
Aloof  in  these  dark  heavens  paus- 
ed Destiny, 
With  her  last  star  descending  in    Le 
gleam 
Of    the  cold    morrow,   from  the 
emptied  sky. 
The  hour,  the  distance  from  her  old 
self,  allv 
The  novelty  and  loneness  of  the 

place, 
Had  left  a  lovely  awe  on  that  fair 
face. 
And  all  the  land  grew  strange  and 
magical. 


178 


THE  WANDERER, 


As  droops  some  billowing  cloud  to 
the  crouched  hill, 
neavy  with  all  heaven's  tears,  for 
all  earth's  care. 
She  drooped  unto  me,  without  force 
or  will, 
And  sank  upon  my  bosom,  mur- 
muring there, 
A  woman's  inarticulate,  passionate 
words.  [earth  ! 

O  moment  of  all  moments  upon 
O  life's  supreme  I     ITow  worth, 
how  wildly  worth, 
Wliole  worlds  of  flame,  to  know  this 
world  affords 

What  even  Eternity  cannot  restore  ! 
When    all  the   ends  of  life   take 
bands,  and  meet 
Kound  centres  of  sweet  fire.     Ah, 
never  more, 
Ah  never,  shall  the  bitter  with  the 
sweet 
Be  mingled   so  in   the   p;ile    after- 
years  1 
One  hour  of  life  immortal  spirits 

possess. 
This  drains  the  world,  and  leaves 
but  weariness, 
And  parching  passion,  and  perplex- 
ing tears. 

Sad  is  it,  that  we  cannot  even  keep 
That  hour  to   sweeten  life's  last 
toil  :  but  Youth 
Grasps  all,  and  leaves  us  :  and,  .vhen 
we  would  v/eep, 
We   dare   not   let  our  tears    flow 
lest,  in  truth. 
They  fall  upon  our  work  which  must 
be  done. 
And  so  we  bind  up  our  torn  hearts 

from  breaking  : 
Our  eyes  from  weeping,  and  our 
brows  from  achlLig  ; 
And    follow   the  long  pathway  all 
alone. 

O  moment  of  sweet  peril,  perilous 
sweet  I 
When  woman  joins  herbelf  to  man ; 
and  man 


Assmnes  the  full-lived  woman,  to 
complete 
The  end  of  life,  since  human  life 
began  ! 
When  in  the  perfect  bliss  of  union. 
Body  and  soul  triimiphal  rapture 

claim, 
When  there's  a  spirit  in  blood,  in 
spirit  a  flame. 
And  earth's  lone  hemispheres  glow, 
fused  in  one  I 

Kare  moment  of  rare  peril  ! .  .  .  The 

bard's  song, 
The  mystic's  musing  fancy.     Did 

there  ever 
Two  perfect  souls,  in  perfect  forms, 

belong 
Perfectly  to  each  other  ?    ]S'ever, 

never  I 
Perilous  were  such  moments,  for  a 

touch 
Might  mar  their  clear  perfection. 

p]x<:]uisite 
Even  for  the  peril  of  their  frail  de- 
light. 
Such  things  man  feigns  :  such  seeks: 

but  finds  not  such. 

Xo  !  for  'tis  in   ourselves  our  love 
doth  grow  : 
And,  when  oar  love  is  fully  risen 
within  us, 
Eound  the  first  object  doth  it  over- 
flow, 
Which,  be  it  fair  or  foul,  is  sure  to 
win  us 
Out  of  ourselves.     We  clothe  with 
our  own  nature 
The  man  or  woman  its  first  want 

doth  find. 
The   leafless  prop  with    our  ovm 
buds  we  bind, 
And  hide  in  blossoms  :  fiU  the  empty 
feature 

With  our  own  meanings  :  even  prize 

defects 
Which  keep  the  mark  of  our  ovm 

choice  upon 
The  chosen  :  Mess  each  fault  whose 

sp'Ji  protects 


THE  WAN^DERER. 


179 


Our  choice  from  possible  confu- 
sion 
With  the  world's  other  creatures  : 
we  believe  them 

What  most  we  wish,  the  more  we 
find  they  are  not  : 

Our  choice  once  made,  with  our 
own  choice  we  war  not  : 
We  worship  them  for  what  ourselves 
we  give  them. 

Doubt  is  this  o'therwise.  .  .  .  WTien 
fate  removes 
The  unworthy  one  from  our  re- 
luctant arms, 
We  die  with  that  lost  love  to  other 
loves, 
And  turn  to  its  defects  from  other 
charms. 
And    nobler   forms,    where    moved 
those  forms,  may  move 
With  lingering    looks  :   our   cold 

farewells  we  wave  them. 
We  loved  our  lost  loves  for  the 
love  we  gave  them, 
And  not  for  anything  they  gave  our 
love. 

Old  things  retm*n  not  as  they  were 
in  Time. 
Trust  nothing  to  the  recompense 
of  Chance, 
Which  deals  with  novel  forms.  This 
falling  rhyme 
Fails  from  the  flowery  steeps  of 
old  romance, 
Down    that    abyss   which    Memory 
droops  above, 
And,   gazing  out  of  hopelessness 

down  there, 
I  see  the  shadow  creep  through 
Youth's  gold  hair 
Ajid  white  Death  watching  over  red- 
lipped  Love. 


PART  II. 

'he  soul  lives  on.     WTiat  lives  on 
with  the  soul  ? 
Glimpses  of  something  better  than 
her  best ; 


Truer  than  her  truest :  motion  to  a 
pole 
Beyond  the  zones  of  this  orb's  dim- 
ness guest : 
And  (since  life  dies  not  with  the  first 
dead  bliss) 
Blind  notions   of  some  meaning 

moved  through  time, 
Some  purpose  in  the  deeps  of  the 
sublime, 
That  stirs  a  pulse  here,  could  we  find 
out  this. 

Visions  and  noises  rouse  us.     I  dis- 
cern 
Even  in  change  some  comfort,  O 
Beloved  ! 
Suns  rise  and  set ;  stars  vanish  and 
return  ; 
But  never  quite  the  same.     And 
life  is  moved 
Toward  new  experience.     Every  eve 
and  morn 
Descends  and  springs  with  increase 

on  the  world. 
And  what  is  death  but  life  in  this 
life  furled  ? 
The  outward  cracks,  the  inward  life 
is  born. 

Friends  pass  beyond  the  borders  of 
this  Known, 
And  draw  our  thoughts  up  after 
them.     We  say 
"  They  are  :  but  their  relations  now 
are  done 
With  Nature,  and  the  plan  of  night 
and  day." 
If  never  mortal  man  from  this  world's 
light 
Did  pass  away  to  that  surrounding 

gloom, 
'Twere  well  to  doubt  the  life  be- 
yond the  tomb  ; 
xj-ut  now  is  Truth's  dark  side  revealed 
to  sight. 

Father  of  spirits  !    Thine  all  secrets 
be. 
I  bless  Thee  for  the  light  Tu  u 
hast  revealed, 


i8t 


THE  WANDERER. 


And  that  Thou  hidest.    Part  of  me 
I  see, 
And  part  of  me  Thy  wisdom  hath 
concealed, 
Till  the  new  life  divulge  it.     Lord, 
imbue  me 
With  will  to  work  in  this  diurnal 

sphere. 
Knowing  myself  my  life's  day-la- 
borer here, 
Where    evening    brings    the    day's 
work's  wages  to  me. 

I  work  my  work.     All  its  results  are 
Thine. 
I  know  the  loyal  deed  becomes  a 
fact 
WTiich  Thou  wilt  deal  with  :  nor  will 
I  repine 
Although  I  miss  the  value  of  the 
act. 
Thou  carest  for  the  creatures  :  and 
the  end 
Thou  seest.     The  world  unto  Thy 

hands  I  leave  : 
And  to  Thy  hands  my  life.     I  will 
not  grieve 
Because  I  know  not  all  Thou  dost  in- 
tend. 

Something  I  know.     Oft,   shall  it 
come  about 
When  every  heart  is  full  with  hope 
for  man 
The  horizon  straight  is  darkened, 
and  a  doubt 
Clouds  all.     The  work  the  world 
so  well  began 
Wastes  down,  and  by  some  deed  of 
shame  is  finished. 
Ah  yet,  I  will  not  be  dismayed  : 

nor  though 
The  good  cause  flourish  fair,  and 
Freedom  flow 
All  round,  my  watch  beyond  shall 
be  diminished. 

What  seemed   the  triumph   of  the 
Fiend  ai  length 
Might  be  the  efiort  of  some  dying 
Devil, 


Permitted  to  put  forth  his  fullest 
strength 
To  lose  it  all  forever.     While,  the 
evil 
Whose  cloven  crest  our  pasans  float 
above 
Might  have  been  less  than  what 

unnoticed  lies 
'Neath  our  rejoicings.     Which  of 
us  is  wise  ? 
We  know  not  what  w,e  mourn  :  nor 
why  we  love. 

But  teach  me,  O  Omnipotent,  since 
strife, 
Sorrow,  and  pain  are  but  occur- 
rences 
Of  that    condition    through    which 
flows  my  life, 
Not  part  of    me,    the    immortal, 
whom  distress 
Cannot  retain,  to  vex  not  thought 
for  these  : 
But  to  be  patient,  bear,  forbear, 

restrain. 
And  hold  my  spirit  pure  above  my 
pain. 
No  star  that  looks  through  life's  dark 
lattices, 

But  what  gives  token  of  a  world 
elsewhere. 
I  bless  Thee  for  the  loss  of  all 
things  here 
Which  proves  the  gain  to  be  :  the 
hand  of  Care 
That  shades  the  eyes  from  earth, 
and  beckons  near 
The  rest  which  sweetens  all  :  the 
shade  Time  throws 
On  Love's  pale  coimtenance,  that 

he  may  gaze 
Across  Eternity  for  better  days 
Unblinded  ;  and  the  wisdom  of  all 
woes  : 

1  bless  Thee  for  the  life  Thou  gavest, 
albeit 
It  hath  known  sorrow  :  for  the  sor- 
row's  self 

I  bless  Thee  ;  and  the  gift  of  wings 
to  flee  it, 


THE  WANDERER. 


Led  by  this  spirit  of  song, — this 
ministering  elf, 
That  to  sweet  uses  doth  unwind  my 
pain, 
And  spin  his  palace  out  of  poison- 

tiowers. 
To  lloat.  an  impulse,  through  the 
livelong  hours, 
From  sky  to  sky,  on  Fancy's  glitter- 
ing skein. 

Aid  me,  sweet  Spirit,  escaping  from 
tiie  throng 
Of  those  that  raise  the  Corybantic 
shout, 
And  barbarous,  dissonant  cymbal's 
clash  prolong. 
In  fear  lest  any  hear  the  God  cry 
out, 
Kow  that  the    night  resumes    her 
bleak  retreat 
In  these  dear  lands,  footing  the 

unwandered  waste 
Of    Loss,  to  walk  in  Italy,   and 
taste 
A  little  while  of  what  was  once  so 
sweet. 


PART   IIL 

Nurse  of  an  ailing  world,  belove'd 
Night ! 
Our  days  are  fretful  cliildren,  weak 
to  bear 
A  little  pain  :  they  wrangle,  wound, 
and  fight 
Each  other,  weep,  and  sicken,  and 
despair. 
Thou,  with  thy  motherly  hand  that 
healeth  care. 
Stillest  our  little  noise  :  rebukest 

one, 
Soothest  another  :  blamest  tasks 
^  undone : 

Ivefreshest  jaded  hope  ;  and  teachest 
prayer. 

Thine  is  the  mother's  sweet  hush- 
hush,  that  stills 
The  flutterings  of  a  plaintive  heart 

to  rest. 


Tiiiue  is  the  mother's  medicining 
hand  that  fills 
Sleep's  opiate  :  thine  the  mother's 
patient  breast  ; 
Thine,  too,  the  mother's  mute  re 
proacliful  eyes. 
That  gently  look  our  angiy  noise 

to  shame 
When   all  is  done  :  we  dare  not 
meet  their  blame  : 
They  are  so  silent,  and  they  are  so 
wise. 

Thou  that  from  this  lone  casement, 
while  I  write, 
Seen    in  the    shadowy  upspring, 
swift  dost  post 
Without  a  sound  the  polar  star  to 
light. 
Not  idly  did  the  Chaldee  shepherds 
boast 
By  thy  stern  lights  man's  life  aright 
to  read. 
All  day  he  hides  himself  from  his 

own  heart. 
Swaggers  and  struts,  and  plays  his 
foolish  part  : 
Thou  only  seest  him  as  he  is  indeed. 

For  who  could  f^ign  false  worth,  or 
give  the  nod 
Among  his  fellows,  or  this  dust 
disown, 
With  naught  between  him  and  those 
lights  of  God, 
Left  awfully  alone  with  the  Alone  ? 
Who  vaunt  high  words,  whose  least 
heart's  beating  jars 

The  hush  of  sentinel   worlds  that 

take  mute  note 
Of    all    beneath    yon    judgment 

plains  remote  ? — 
A  universal  cognizance  of  stars  ! 

And  yet,   O  gentlest  angel  of  the 
Lord  ! 
Thou    leadest    by  ^at,    hand   the 
artisan 
Away  from  work.      Thou  bringest, 
on  ship-board, 
When  gleam  Mie  dead-lights,  to  the 
lonely  man 


i8a 


THE  WANDERER, 


That    turns    the   wheel,    a  blessed 
memory 
Of  apple-blossoms,  and  the  moun- 
tain vales 
About  his  little  cottage  in  Green 
Wales, 
Miles  o'er  the  ridges  of  the  rolling 


Thou     bearest    divine    forgiveness 
amongst  men. 
Relenting  Anger  pauses  by  the  bed 
Where  Sleep  looks  so  like  Death. 
The  absent  then 
Return  ;    and    Memory    beckons 
back  the  dead, 
Thou  helpest  home  (thy  balmy  hand 
it  is  !) 
The  hard-worked  husband  to  the 

pale-cheeked  wife, 
And  hushest  up  the  poor  day's 
household  strife 
Ou  marriage  pillows,  with  a  good- 
night kiss. 

J  liou  bringest  to  the  wretched  and 
forlorn 
Woman,  that  down  the  glimmer- 
ing by-street  hovers, 
A  dream  of  better  (Jays  :  the  gleam 
of  corn 
About  her  father's  field,  and  her 
first  lover's 
Grave,  long  forgotten  in  the  green 
churchyard  : 
Voices,   long-stilled,   from    purer 

hours,  before 
The  rushlight,  Hope,  went  out  ; 
and,  through  the  door 
0/  the  lone  garret,  when  the  nights 
were  hard, 

Hunger,  the  wolf,  put  in  his  paw, 
and  found  her 
Sewing     the     winding-sheet     of 
Youth,  alone  ; 

And  griped  away  the  last  cold   com- 
forts round  her  : — 
Her  little  bed  ;  the  mean  clothes 
she  had  on  : 

ner  mother's  picture — the  sole  saint 
the  knew  * 


Till  nothing  else  was  left  for  the 

last  crust 
But  the  poor  body,  and  the  hearr,'e. 

young  trust 
In  its  own   courage  :  and  so  these 

went  too. 

Home  from  the  heated  Ball  flusht 
Beauty  stands, 
Musing  beside  her    costly   couch 
alone  : 
But  while  she  loosens,   faint,   with 
jewelled  hands. 
The  diamonds  from  her  dark  hair, 
one  by  one. 
Thou  whisperest  in  her  empty  heart 
the  name 
Of  one  that  died  heart-broken  for 

her  sake 
Long  since,  and   all  at  once  the 
coiled  hell-snake 
Turns  stinging  in  his    ^^,%,  —  and 
pomp  is  shame. 

Thou  comest  to  the  man  of  many 
pleasures 
Without  a  joy,  that,  soulless,  plays 
for  souls. 
Whose  life's  a  squandered  heap  of 
plundered  treasures, 
While,   listless  loitering    by,   the  ^ 
moment  rolls  i 

From  nothing  on  to  nothing.    From 
the  shelf 
Perchance  he  takes  a  cynic  book. 

Perchance 
A  dead  flower  stains  the  leaves. 
The  old  romance 
Returns.     Ere  morn,  perchance,  he 
shoots  himself. 

Thou  comest,  with  a  touch  of  scorn, 

to  me. 
That  o'er  the  broken  wine-cup  of 

my  youth 
Sit     brooding    here,   and    pointest 

silently 
To  thine  unchanging  stars.     Yes ! 

yes  !  in  truth, 
They  seem  more  reachless  now  thaii 

when  of  yore 


THE  WANDERER. 


183 


Above  the  promist.  land  I  watcht 
them  sMne, 

And  all  among  their  cryptic  ser- 
pentine 
Went  climbing  Hope,  new  planets  to 
explore. 

Not  for  the  flesh  that  fades  —  al- 
though decay 
This  thronged  metropolis  of  sense 
o'erspread: 
Not  for  the  joys  of  youth,  that  fleet 
away 
When  the  wise  swallows  to  the 
south  are  fled  ; 
Not  that,   beneath   the  law   which 
fades  the  flower. 
An  earthly  hope  should  wither  in 

the  cells 
Of  this  poor  earthly  house  of  life, 
where  dwells 
Unseen     the     solitary     Thinking- 
Power  ; 

But  that  where  fades  the  flower  the 
weed  should  flourish  ; 
For  all  the  baffled  efforts  to  achieve 
The  imperishable  from   the  things 
that  perish, 
For  broken  vows,  and  weakened 
will,  I  grieve. 
Knowing  that  night  of  all  is  creeping 
on 
Wherein    can  no    man    work,    I 

sorrow  most 
For  what  is  gained,   and  not  for 
what  is  lost ; 
Nor  mourn  alone  what's   undone, 
but  what's  done. 

What  light,  from  yonder  windless 
cloud  released, 
Is  widening  up  the  peaks  of  yon 
black  hills  ? 
It  is  the  full  moon  in  the  mystic 
east, 
Whose  coming  half  the  the  un- 
ravisht  darkness  fills 
Till  all    among    the    ribbed    light 
cloudlets  pale, 
From  shore  to  shore  in   sapphnne 
deeps  divine, 


The  orbed  splendor  seems  to  slide 

and  shine 
Aslope  the  roling  vapors  in  the  vale. 

Abroad  the  stars'  majestic  light  is 
flung. 
And  they  fade  brightening  up  the 
steps  of  Night. 
Cold    mysteries    of  the   midnight  ! 
that,  among 
The  sleeps    and   pauses    of    this 
world,  in  sight, 
Reveal  a  doubtful  hope  to  wild  De- 
sire ; 
Which,  hungering  for  the  sources 

of  the  suns, 
Makes  moan  beyond  the  blue  Sep- 
tentrions. 
And  spidery  Saturn  in  his  webs  of 
fire  ; 

Whether  the  unconecious  destinies  of 
man 
Move  with  the  motions  of  your 
sphered  lights, 
And  his  brief  course,   foredoomed 
ere  he  began. 
Your    shining    symbols    fixed    in 
reachless  heights. 
Or  whether  all  the  purpose  of  his 
pain 
Be    shut  in  his    wild  heart    and 

feverish  will, 
He  knows  no  more  than  this  : — 
that  you  are  still. 
But  he  is  moved  :  he  goes,  but  you 
remain. 

Fooled  was  the  human  vanity  that 
wrote 
Strange  names  in   astral  fire  on 
yonder  pole. 
Who  and  what  were  they — in  what 
age  remote — 
That  scrawled  weak  boasts  on  yon 
sidereal  scroll  ? 
Orion  shines.     Now  seek  for  Nim- 
rod.     Where  ? 
Osiris  is  a  fable,  and  no  more  : 
But  Sirius  burns  as  brightly  as  of 
yore. 
There  is  no  shade  on  Berenice's  hair. 


i8^ 


THE   WANDERER. 


You  that  oullas:    ilu;   Pyramids,  as 
they 
Outlast  their  founders,  tell  us  of 
our  doom  ! 
You  that  see  love  depart,  and  Error 
stray, 
And  Genius  toiling  at  a  splendid 
tomb, 
Like    those  Egyptian    slaves  :    and 
Hope  deceived  : 
And  strength  still  failing  when  tlie 

goal  is  near  : 
And  Passion  parcht  :  and  Kapture 
claspt  to  Fear  : 
And  Trust  betrayed  :    and  Memory 
bereaved  I 


Vain  question  !    Shall  some  other 
voice  declare 
Wliat  my  soul  knows  not  of  her- 
self? Ah  no  1 
Dumb    patient    Monster,    grieving 
everywhere. 
Thou  answerest  nothing  which  I 
did  not  know. 
The  broken  fragments  of   ourselves 
we  seek 
In  alien  forms,  and  leave  our  lives 

behind. 
In  our  own  memories  our  graves 
we  find. 
And  when  we  lean  upon  our  hearts, 
they  break. 

I  seem  to  see  'mid  yonder  glimmer- 
ing spheres 
Another    world  : — not    that    our 
prayers  record, 
Wherein  our  God  shall  wipe  away  all 
tears, 
And  never  voice  of  mourning  shall 
be  heard  ; 
But  one   between    the    sunset  and 
raoonrise  : 
Near  night,  yet  neighboring  day : 

a  twilit  land, 
And    peopled    by    a    melancholy 
band — 
T'he  souls  that  loved  and  failed — 
with  hopeless  eyes  ,• 


More  lil^e  that  Hades  of  the  antique 
creeds  ; — 
A  land    of    vales  forlorn,   where 
Thought  shall  roam 
Regretful,  void  of  w^holesome  human 
deeds,  [koine, 

An  endless,  homeless  pining  after 
To  M'hich  all  sights  and  sounds  shall 
minister 
In  vain  : — white  roses  glimmering 

all  alone 
In  an  evening  light,  and,  with  his 
haunting  tone. 
The  advancing  twilight's  shard-born 
trumpeter. 

A  world  like  this  world's  worst  come 
back  again  ; 
Still  groaning  'neath  the  burthen 
of  a  Fall  : 
Eternal  longing  with  eternal  pain. 
Want  without  hope,  and  memory 
saddening  all. 
All  congregated  failure  and  despair 
Shall  wander  there,  through  some 

old  maze  of  wrong  : — 
Ophelia    drowning    in    her    t>v/ii 
death-song, 
And    First-Love    strangled    in    his 
golden  hair. 

Ah  well,  for  those  that  overcome,  no 
doubt 
The  crowns  are  ready  ;  strength  is 
to  the  strong. 
But  we — but  we — weak  hearts  that 
grope  about 
In  darkness,  with  a  lamp  that  fails 
along 
The  lengthening  midnight,  dying  ere 
we  reach 
The  bridal  doors  !    O,  what  for  us 

remains, 
But  mortal  effort  with  immortal 
pains  ? 
And  yet— God  breathed  a  spirit  into 
"  each  ! 

I  know  this  miracle  of  the  soul  is 
more 
Than  all  the  marvels  thtit  it  lool<s 
upuji, 


IN  ITALY. 


I8S 


And  we  are  kiugs  whose  heritage 
was  before 
The  spheres,  and  owes  no  homage 
to  the  sun. 
In  my  own  breast  a  mightier  world  I 
bear 
Than  all  those  orbs  on  orbs  about 

me  rolled  ; 
Nor  are  you  kinglier,  stars,  though 
throned  on  gold, 
And  given  the  empires  of  the  mid- 
night-air. 

For  I,  too,  am  undying  as  you  are. 
O  teach  me  calm,  and  teach  me 
self-control : — 
To  sphere  my  spirit  like  yon  fixed 
star 
That  moves  not  ever  in  the  utmost 
pole, 
But  whirls,  and  sleeps,  and  turns  all 
heaven  one  way. 


So,   strong  as  Atlas,   should   the 

spirit  "stand, 
And  turn  the  great  globe  round  in 

her  right  hand, 
For  recreation  of  her  sovereign  away. 


Ah  yet  ! — For  all,  I  shall  not  use  my 
power, 
Nor  reign -within  the  light  of  my 
own  home. 
Till    speculation    fades,    and    that 
strange  hour 
Of  the  departing  of  the  soul  is 
come  ; 
Till  all  this  wrinkled  huslc  of  care 
falls  by, 
And  my  immortal  nature  stands 

upright 
In  her  perpetual  morning,  and  the 
light 
Of  suns  that  set  not  on  Eternity  ! 


BOOK    1.  — IN    ITALY. 


THE  MAGIC  LAND. 

By  woodland  belt,  by  ocean  bar. 
The  full  south  breeze  our  fore- 
heads fanned, 

And,  under  many  a  yellow  star. 
We  dropped  into  the  Magic  Land. 

There,  every  sound  and  every  sight 
Means  more  than  sight  or  sound 
elsewhere  ; 

Each  twilight  star  a  twofold  light ; 
Each  rose  a  double  redness,  there. 

By  ocean  bar,  by  woodland  belt, 
Our  silent  course  a  syren  led, 

Till  dark  in  dawn  began  to  melt. 
Through    the    wild    wizard-work 
o'erhead. 

A  murmur  from  the  -v  iolet  vales  ! 
A  gloiy  in  the  goblin  dell  I 


There  Beauty  all  her  breast  unveils, 
And  Music  pours  out  all  her  shell. 

Wc  watched,  toward    the    land  of 
dreams, 
The  fair  moon  draw  the  munnur- 
ing  main  ; 
A  single  thread  of  silver  beams 
Was  made  the  monster's  rippling 
chain. 

We  heard  far  off  the  syren's  song  ; 
We  caught  the  gleam  of  sea-maid  9 
hair.  [among, 

The    glimmering    isles    and    rocks 
We  moved  through  sparkling  pur- 
ple air. 

Then  Morning  rose,  and  smote  from 
far. 

Her  elfin  harps  o'er  land  and  sea  ; 
And  woodland  belt,  and  ocean  bar. 

To  one  sweet  note,  sighed ' '  Italy ! " 


rS6 


THE  WANDERER. 


DESIRE. 

The  golden  Planet  of  the  Occident 
Warm  from  his  bath  comes  up, 
i'  the  rosy  air, 
And  you  may  tell  which  way  the 
Daylight  went, 
Only  by  his  last  footsteps  shining 
there  : 
For  now  he  dwells 
Sea-deep  o'er  the  other  shore  of 
the  world, 
And    winds    himself    in    the  pink- 
mouthed  shells  ; 
Or,  with  his  dusky,  sun-dyed  Priest, 
Walks  in  the  gardens  of  the  gorgeous 
East ; 
Or  hides  in  Indian  hills  ;  or  saileth 
where 
Floats,  curiously  curled, 
Leagues  out  of  sight  and  scent  of 

spicy  trees, 
The  cream-white  nautilus   on  sap- 
phrine  seas. 

But  here  the  Night  from  the  hill-top 
yonder, 
Steals  all  alone,  nor  yet  too  soon  ; 
I  have  sighed  for,  and   sought  for, 
her  ;  sadder  and  fonder 
(All  through  the  lonely  and  linger- 
ing noon) 
Than  a  maiden  that  sits  by  the  lat- 
tice to  ponder 
On  vows  made  in  vain,  long  since, 
under  the  moon. 
Her  dusky  hair  she  hath  shaken  free, 
And  her  tender  eyes  are  wild  with 
love  ; 
And  her  balmy  bosom  lies  bare  to  me. 
She  hath  lighted  the  seven  sweet 
Pleiads  above. 
She  is  breathing  over  the  dreaming 
sea, 
She  is  murmuring  low  in  the  cedar 

grove  ; 
She  hath  put  to  sleep  the  moaning 
dove 
In  the  silent  cypress-tree. 

And  there  is  no  voice  nor  whisper, — 
Ko  voice  nor  whisper, 


In  the  hillside  olives  all  at  rest, 
Underneath  blue-lighted  Hesper, 

Sinking,  slowly,  in  the  liquid  west  : 
For  the  night's  heart  knoweth  best 
Love  by  silence  most  exprest. 
The  nightingales  keep  mute 
Each  one  his  fairy  flute, 
Where  the  mute  stars  look  down, 
And  the  laurels  close  the  green  sear- 
side  : 
Only  one<amorous  lute 
Twangs  in  the  distant  town, 
From  some  lattice  opened  wide  : 
The  climbing  rose  and  vine  are  here, 

are  there. 
On  the  terrace,  around,  above  me  : 
The  lone  Ledaian*  lights  from  yon 

enchanted  air 
Look  down  upon  my  spirit,  like  a 
spirit's  eyes  that  love  me. 

How  beautiful,  at  night,  to  muse  on 
the  mountain  height, 
Moated    in    purple    air,    and    all 
alone  ! 
How  beautiful,  at  night,  to  look  into 
the  light 
Of  loving  eyes,  when  loving  lips 
lean  down  unto  our  own  ! 
But  there  is  no  hand  in  mine,  no 
hand  in  mine, 
Nor  any  tender  cheek  against  me 
prest  : 
O  stars  that  o'er  me  shine,  I  pine,  I 
pine,  I  pine. 
With  hopeless  fancies  hidden  in  an 
ever-hungering  breast  ! 

O  where,  O  where  is  she  that  should 
be  here. 
The  spirit  my  spirit  dreameth  ? 
With  the  passionate  eyes,  so  deep,  so 
dear, 
Where  a  secret  sweetness  beam- 
eth? 
O  sleepeth  she,  with  her  soft  gold 
hair 


*'  How  oft,  unwearied,  have  we  epent  the 

nights, 
Till  the  LedfPan  stars,  so  famed  for  love. 
Wondered  at  us  from  above."— Cow I.BY. 


f'- 


IN  ITALY. 


187 


Streaming  over  the  fragrant  pil- 
low. 
And  a  rich  dream  glowing  in  her  ripe 
check, 
Far  away,  I  know  not  where, 
By  lonely  shores,  where    the    tum- 
bling billow 
Somids  all  night  in  an  emerald 
creek  ? 

Or  doth  she  lean  o'er  the  casement 
stone 
When  the  day's  dull  noise  is  done 
with, 
And  the    sceptred   spirit  remounts 
alone 
Into  her  long-usurped  throne. 
By  the  stairs  the  stars  are  won  with  ? 

Hearing  the  white  owl  call 
Where  the  river  draws  through  the 
meadows  below, 
By  the  beeches  brown,   and   the 
broken  wall. 
His  silvery,  seaward  waters,  slow 

To  the  ocean  bounding  all  : 
With,  here  a  star  on  his  glowing 
breast, 
And,  there  a  lamp  down-stream- 
ing, 
And  a  musical  motion  towards  the 
west 
Where  the  long  white  cliffs   are 
gleaming  ; 
While,  far  in  the  moonlight,  lies  at 
rest 
A  great  ship,  asleep  and  dream- 
ing? 

Or  doth  she  linger  yet 

Among  her  sisters  and  brothers, 
In  the  chamber  where  happy  faces 
are  met. 
Distinct  from  all  the  others  ? 
As  my  star  up  there,  be  it  never  so 
bright, 
No  other  star  resembles. 
Doth  she  steal  to  the  window,  and 

strain  her  sight 
(While  the  pearl  in  her  warm  hair 
trembles) 
Over  the  dark,  the  distant  night, 


Feeling  something  changed   in  hei 
home  yet  ; 
That  old  songs  have  lost  their  old 
delight. 
And  the  true  soul  is  not  come  yet  ? 
Till  the  nearest  star  in  sight 
Is  drowned  in  a  tearful  light. 

I  would  that  I  were  nigh  her, 
Wherever  she  rest  or  rove  ! 

My  spirit  waves  as  a  spiral  fire 
In  a  viewless  wind  doth  move. 

Go    forth,    alone,    go    forth,   wild- 
winged  Desire, 
Thou  art  the  bird  of  Jove, 

That  broodest  lone  by  the  Olympian 
throne  ; 

And   strong  to    bear  the  thunders 
which  destroy, 

Or  fetch  the  ravisht,   flute-playing 
Phrygian  boy  ; 

Go  forth,  across  the  world,  and  find 
my  love  ! 

FATALITY. 

I  HAVE  seen  her,  with  her  golden 
hair, 
And  her  exquisite  primrose  face, 
And  the  violet  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  my  heart  received  its  own  de- 
spair— 
The  Lhrall  of  a  hopeless  grace. 
And  the  knowledge  of  how  yontb 
dies. 

Live  hair  afloat  with  snakes  of  gold. 
And  a  throat  as  white  as  snow, 
And  a  stately  figure  and  foot  ; 
And  that  faint  pink  smile,  so  sweet, 
so  cold. 
Like  a  wood  anemone,  closed  be- 
low 
The  shade  of  an  ilex  root. 

And  her  delicate  milk-white  hand  in 
mine. 
And  her  pensive  voice  in  my  ear, 
And  her  eyes  downcast  as  we 
speak. 
I  am  filled  with  a  rapture,  vague  and 
fine  ; 


iSS 


THE  WANDERER. 


For  there  has  fallen  a  sparkling 
tear 
Over  her  soft,  pale  cheek. 

And  I  know  that  all  is  hopeless  now. 
And  that  which  might  have  been, 
Plad  she  only  waited  a  year  or 
two, 
Is  turned  to  a  wild  regret,  I  know, 
Which  will  haunt  us  both,  what- 
ever the  scene, 
And  whatever  the  path  we  go. 

Meanwhile,  for  one  moment,  hand 
in  hand. 
We  gaze  on  each  other's  eyes  ; 
And  the  red  moon  rises  above 
us  ; 
'rre  linger  with  love  in  the  lovely 
land, — 
Italy  with  its  yearning  ^kies. 
And  its  wild  white     tars  that 
love  us. 

A  VISION. 

The  hour  of  Hesperus  !  the  hour 
when  feeling 

Grows  likest  memory,  and  the  full 
heart  swells 
With  pensive  pleasure  to  the  mellow 
pealing 
Of  mournful  music  upon  distant 
bells  : 
The  hour  when  it  seems  sweetest  to 
be  loved. 
And  saddest  to  have  loved  in  days 

no  more. 
O  love,  O  life,  O  lovely  land  of 
yore. 
Through     which,     erewhile,     these 
weary  footsteps  roved, 

Was  it  a  yision  ?    Or  Irene,  sitting, 
Lone  in  her  chamber,  on  her  snowy 
bed. 
With  listless  fingers,  lingeringly  un- 
knitting 
Her    silken    bodice ;    and,    with 
bended  head. 
Hiding  m  warm  hair,  half-way  to  her 
knee 


Her  pearl-pale   shoulder,  leaning  | 

on  one  arm,  i 

Athwart  the  darkness,  odorous  and>^ 

warm. 

To  watch  the  low,  full  moon  bet,  / 

pensively?  | 

A  fragrant  lamp  burned  dimly  in  the  i 

room,  ' 

With  scarce  a  gleam  in  either  look-  [ 

ing-glass.  , 

The  mellow  moonlight,  through  the« 

deep-blue  gloom. 

Did  all  along  the  dreamy  chamber  | 

pass,  [awei 

As  though  it  were  a  little  toucht  with  i 

(Being  new-come  into  that  quiet  i 

place  ' 

In  such  a  quiet  way)  at  the  strangely 

grace 

Of  that  pale  lady,  and  what  else  ittj- 

saw  ; — 

Rare  flowers  :  narcissi  ;  irises,  each  \ 
crowned  ; 
Red  oleander  blossoms  ;  hyacinths s 
Flooding     faint    fragrance,     richly^; 
curled  all  round, 
Corinthian,  cool  coliminar  flowerse 
on  plinths  ; 
Waxen  camelias,  white  and  crimson 
ones  ; 
And  amber  lilies,  and  the  regal 

rose,  , 

Which  for  the  breast  of  queens  n, 

full-scornful  grows  ;  | 

All  pinnacled    in    urns    of    carven  ' 

bronze  : 
Tables    of    inwrought    stone,    true 
Florentine, — 
Olympian    circles    thronged   with  ji 
Merciu-ies,  ) 

Minervas,   little    Junos  dug  i'   the  ^ 

green 
Of  ruined  Rome  ;  and  Juno's  own  ; 
rich  eyes  _  ' 

Vivid  on  peacock  plumes  Sidonian  : 
A  ribboned  lute,   young  Music's  JJ 
cradle  :  books,  ! 

Vellumed  and  claspt :  and  with  li 
bewildered  looks,  ' 

Madonna's   picture,— the  old  smile  ^I 
grown  wan. 


IN  ITALY. 


189 


From     bloomed     thickets,     firefly- 
lamped,  beneath 
The  terrace,  fluted  cool  the  night- 
ingale. 
In  at  the  open  window  came  the 
breath 
Of  many  a  balmy,  dim  blue,  dream- 
ing vale. 
At  intervals  the  howlet's  note  came 
clear, 
Fluttering  dark  silence  through  the 

cypress  grove  ; 
An  infant  breeze  from  the  elf-land 
of  Love, 
Lured  by  the  dewy  hour,  crept,  lisp- 
ing, near. 

And  now  is  all  the  night  her  own,  to 
make  it 
Or  grave  or  gay  with  throngs  of 
waking  dreams. 
Now  grows  her  heart  so  ripe,  a  sigh 
might  shake  it 
To  showers  of  fruit,  all  golden  as 
beseems 
Hesperian  growth.       Wliy  not,  on 
nights  like  this, 
Should    Daphne    out    from    yon 

green  laurel  slip  ? 
A  Dryad  from  the  ilex,  with  white 
hip 
Quivered  and  thonged  to  hunt  with 
Artemis  ? 


To-night,    what    wonder    were    it, 
while  such  shadows 
Are  taking  up    such    shapes    on 
moonlit  mountains. 
Such    star-flies     kindling    o'er    low 
emerald  meadows, 
Such  voices  floating  out  of  hillside 
fountains, 
If  some  full  face  should  from  the 
window  greet  her. 
Whose  eyes  should  be  new  planet- 
ary lights, 
Whose  voice  a  well  of  liquid  love- 
delights, 
And  to  the  distance  sighingly  entreat 
her? 


EROS. 

What  wonder  that  I  loved  her  thus, 

that  night  ? 
The  Immortals  know  each  other  at 

first  sight, 
And  Love  is  of  them. 

In  the  fading  light 
Of  that  delicious  eve,  wliose   stars 

even  yet 
Gild  the  long  dreamless  nights,  and 

cannot  set, 
She  passed  me,  through  the  silence  : 

all  her  hair. 
Her    waving,    warm,    bright    hair 

neglectfully 
Poured  round  her  showy  throat  as 

without  care 
Of  its  own  beauty. 

And  when  she  turned  on  me 
The  sorrowing  light  of  desolate  eyes 

divine, 
I  knew  in  a  moment  what  our  lives 

must  be 
Henceforth.      It    lightened    on    me 

then  and  there. 
How  she  was  irretrievably  all  mine, 
I  hers, — through  time,  become  eter- 
nity, [wise. 
It  could  not  ever  have  been  other- 
Gazing  into  those  eyes. 

And  if,  before  I  gazed  on  them,  my 
soul,  [lowed, 

Oblivious  of  her  destiny,  had  fol- 

In  days  forever  silent,  the  control 

Of  any  beauty  less  divinely  hal- 
lowed 

Than  that  upon  her  beautiful  white 
brows, 

(The  serene  summits  of  all  earthly 
sweetness  !) 

Straightway  the  records  of  all  other 
vows 

Of  idol-worship  faded  silently 

Out  of  the  folding  leaves  of  memory, 

Forever  and  forever  ;  and  my  heart 
became 

Pure  white  at  once,  to  keen  in  its 
completeness, 

And  perfect  purity, 

Her  mystic  name. 


190 


THE  WANDERER. 


INDIAN  L0YE-60NG. 

My  body  sleeps  :  my  heart  awakes. 

My  lips  to  breathe  thy  name  are 

moved 

In    slumber's    ear .    then     slmnber 

breaks  ; 

And  I  am  drawn  to  thee,  beloved. 

Thou  drawest  me,  thou  drawest  me, 

Through  sleep,   through  night,  I 

hear  the  rills, 
And  hear  the  leopard  in  the  hills, 
And  down  the  dark  1  feel  to  thee. 

The  vineyards  and  the  villages 

Were  silent  in  the  vales,  the  rocks. 
I  followed  past  the  myrrhy  trees, 

And  by  the  footsteps  of  the  li(>cks. 
Wild  honey,  dropt  from  stone  to 
stone, 

Where  bees  have  been,  my  path 
suggests. 

The  winds  are  in  the  eagles'  nests. 
The  nioon  is  hid.     I  walk  alone. 

Thou  drawest  me,  thou  drawest  me 

Across    the    glimmering    wilder- 
nesses. 
And  drawest  me,  my  love,  to  thee, 

With  dove's  eyes  hidden  in  thy 
tresses. 
The  world  is  many  :  my  love  is  oiie. 

1  find  no  likeness  for  my  love. 

The  cinnamons  grow  in  the  grove  : 
The  Golden  Tree  grows  all  alone. 

O  who    hath    seen    her    wondrous 
hair  ! 

Or  seen  my  dove's  eyes  in    the 
woods  ? 
Or  found  her  voice  upon  the  air  ? 

IJpr  steps  along  the  solitudes  ? 
Or  where  is  beauty  like  to  hers  ? 

She  draweth  me,  she  draweth  me. 

I  sought  her  by  the  incense-tree, 
And  in  the  aloes,  and  in  the  firs. 

Where  art  thou,  O  my  heart's  de- 
light, 
With  dove's  eyes  hidden  in  thy 
locks  ? 
My  hair  is  wet  with  dews  of  night. 
My  feet  are  torn  upon  the  rocks. 


The  cedarn  scents,  the  spices,  fail      \ 
About  me.     Strange  and  stranger  ( 

seems 

The  path.     There  comes  a  sound  \ 
of  streams 
Above  the  darkness  on  the  vale. 


No    trees    drop    gums  ;  but  poison 
flowers 
From  rifts  and  clefts  all  round  me  \ 
fall  ; 
The    perfumes    of     thy    midnight 
bowers. 
The  fragrance  of  thy  chambers,  all 
Is  drawing  me,  is  drawing  me. 
Thy  baths  prepare  ;  anoint  thine 

hair  : 
Open  the  window  :  meet  me  there?  f 
I  come  to  thee,  to  thee,  to  thee  ! 

Thy  lattices  are  dark,  my  own. 
Thy  doors  are  still.     My  love,  looki 
out. 
Arise,  my  dove  with  tender  tone. 
The  camphor-clusters  all  about 
Are  whitening.   Dawn  breaks  silent- 
ly- I 
And  all  my  spirit  with  the  dawn 
Expands  ;     and,     slowly,    slowly  'I 
drawn, 

Through  mist  and  darkness  moves  3 
toward  thee. 


MORNING  AND  MEETING        i 

One  yellow  star,  the  largest  and  the 
last 
Of  all  the  lovely  night,  was  fading 
slow  ' 

(As  fades  a  happy  moment  in  the 
past) 
Out  of  the  changing  east,  when,  . 
yet  aglow  \ 

With  dreams  her  looks  made  mag- 
ical, from  sleep  i 
I  waked  ;    and  oped  the  lattice,  j 

Like  a  rose 
All  the  red-opening  morning  *gan 
disclose 
A  ripened   light  upon  the    distaQt 
steep. 


IN  ITALY, 


191 


A  bell  was    chiming    through    the 
crystal  air 
From    the    high    convent-church 
upon  the  hill. 
The  folk  were  loitering  by  to  matin 
prayer. 
The  church-bell    called  me    out, 
and  seemed  to  fill 
The  air  with  little  hopes.     I  reached 
the  door  [rise, 

Before  the  chanted  hymn  began  to 
And  float  its  liquid  Latin  melodies 
O'er  pious  groups  about  the  marble 
floor. 

Breathless,  I  slid  among  the  kneel- 
ing folk. 
A  little  bell  went  tinkling  through 
the  pause 
Of  inward  prayer.     Then  forth  the 
low  chant  broke 
Among  the  glooming  aisles,  that 
through  a  gauze 
Of  sunlight  glimmered. 

Thickly  throbbed  my  blood. 
I  saw,  dark-tressed  in  the  rose-lit 

shade, 
Many  a  little  dusk  Italian  maid, 
Kneeling    with    fervent    face    close 
where  I  stood. 

The  morning,  all  a  misty  splendor, 
shook 
Deep    in    the    mighty    window's 
flame-lit  webs. 
It  touched  the  crowned  Apostle  with 
his  hook, 
And  brightened  where  the  sea  of 
jasper  ebbs 
About  those  Saints'  white  feet  that 
stand  serene 
Each  with  his  legend,  each  in  his 

own  hue 
Attired  :  some  beryl-golden  :  sap- 
phire blue 
Some  :    and   some  ruby-red  :   some 
emerald-green. 

Wherefrom,  in  rainbow-wreaths,  the 
rich  light  rolled 
About  the  snowy  altar,  sparkling 
clean. 


The  organ  groaned  and  pined,  then, 
gTowing  bold. 
Revelled  tlie  cherubs'  golden  wings 
atween. 
And  in  the  light,  beneath  the  music, 
kneeled 
(As  pale   as   some    stone  Virgin 

bending  solemn 
Out  of  the  red  gleam  of  a  granite 
column) 
Irene   with  claspt  hands  and  cold 
lips  sealed. 

As    one    who,    pausing    on    some 
mountain-height. 
Above  the  breeze  that  breaks  o'er 
vineyard  walls, 
Leans  to  the  impulse  of  a  wild  de- 
light, 
Bows   earthward,   feels   the    hills 
bow  too,  and  falls — 
I  dropt  beside  her.     Feeling  seemed 
to  expand 
And  close  :  a  mist  of  music  filled 

the  air  : 
And,  when  it  ceased  in  heaven,  I 
was  aware 
That,    through    a    rapture,    I    ha.i 
toucht  her  hand. 


THE  CLOUD. 

With  shape  to  shape,  all  day, 
And  change  to  change,  by  foreland, 
firth,  and  bay, 
The  cloud  comes  down  from  wan- 
dering with  the  wind, 
Through  gloom  and  gleam  across 
the  green  waste  seas  ; 
And,  leaving  the  white  cliff  and  lone 
tower  bare 
To  empty  air, 
Slips  down  the  windless  west 
and  grows  defined 
In  splendor  by  degrees. 

And,  blown  by  every  wmd 

Of  wonder  through  all  regions  of  the 

mind, 
From  hope  to  fear,  from  doubt  to 

sweet  despite 


:g2 


THE  WANDERER. 


Changing  all  shapes,  and  min- 
gling snow  with  fire, 
The  thought  of  her  descends,  sleeps 
o'er  the  bounds 
Of  passion,  grows,  and  rounds 
Its  golden  outlines  in  a  gradual 
light 
Of  still  desire. 


ROOT  AND  LEAF. 

1  HE  love  that  deep  within  me  lies 
Unmoved     abides     in    conscious 
power  ; 

Yet  in  the  heaven  of  thy  sweet  eyes 
It  varies  every  hour. 

A  look  from  thee  will  flush  tlie 
cheek  : 

A  word  of  thine  awaken  tears  • 
And   ah,  in  all  I  do  and  speak 

How  frail  my  love  appears  ! 

In    yonder    tree,    Beloved,    whose 
boughs 
Are  household  both  to  earth  and 
heaven, 
Whose  leaves  have  murmured  of  our 
vows 
To  many  a  balmy  even. 

The  branch  that  wears  the  liveliest 
green, 
Is  shaken  by  the  restless  bird  ; 
The  leaves  that  nighcst  heaven  are 
seen, 
By  every  breeze  are  stirred  : 

But  storms  may  rise,  and  thunders 
roll, 

Nor  move  the  giant  roots  below  ; 
So,  from  the  bases  of  the  soul. 

My  love  for  thee  doth  grow. 

It  seeks  the  heaven,  and  trembles 
there 

To  every  light  and  passing  breath ; 
But  from  the  heart  no  storm  can  tear 

Its  rooted  growth  beneath. 


WARNINGS. 

Beware,  beware  of  witchery  1 

And  fall  not  in  the  snare 
That  lurks  and  lies  in  wanton  eyes,    j 

Or  hides  in  golden  hair  : 
For  the  Witch  hath  sworn  to  catch  j 
thee,  ' 

And  her  spells  are  on  the  air.        I 
*'  Thou  art  fair,  fair,  fatal  fair, 
O  Irene  ! 
What  is  it,  what  is  it,  ( 

In  the  whispers  of  the  leaves  ?  \ 

In  the  night-wind,  when  its  bosom,     f 
With  the  shower  in  it,  grieves  ?        , 
In  the  breaking  of  the  breaker,  I 

As  it  breaks  upon  the  beach  j 

Through  the  silence  of  the  niglit  ? 

Cordelia  !    Cordelia  ! 
A  warning  in  my  ear — 
"  Not  here  !  not  here  !  not  here! 
But  seek  her  yet,  and  seek  her. 
See  her  ever  out  of  reach. 
Out  of  reach,  and  cut  of  sight  I " 

Cordelia  ! 
Eyes  on  mine,  when  none  can  view 

me  ! 
And  a  magic  murmur  through  me  1 
And  a  presence  out  of  Fairyland, 
Invisible,  yet  near  ! 
Cordelia  ! 
"  In  a  time  which  hath  not  been  : 
In  a  land  thou  hast  not  seen  : 

Thou  shalt  find  her,  but  not  now  : 
Thou  shalt  meet    her,  but  not 
here  : " 
Cordelia  !    Cordelia  ! 
'*  In  the  falling  of  the  snow  : 
In  the  fading  of  the  year  : 

When  the  light  of  hope  is  low,     ,^ 
And  the  last  red  leaf  is  sere."         -k 
Cordelia  !  j 

And  my  senses  lie  asleep,  fast  asleep, 

O  Irene  ! 
In  the  chambers  of  this  Sorceress, 

the  South, 
In  a  slumber  dim  and  deep. 

She  is  seeking  yet  to  keep. 
Brimful  of  poisoned  perfumes, 

The  shut  blossom  of  ray  youth. 
O  fatal,  fatal  fair  Irene  I 


IN  ITALY. 


193 


But  the  whispering  of  the  leaves, 
And  the  night-wind,  when  it  grieves. 
And  the  breaking  of  the  breaker, 
As  it  breaks  upon  the  beach 
Through  the    silence    of  the 
night, 

Cordelia  ! 
Whisper  ever  in  my  ear 
"Not   here  !    not    here  1    not 
here  ! 
But  awake,  O  wanderer  !  seek 
her, 
Ever  seek  Iier  out  of  reach, 
Out  of  reach,  and  out  of  sight  ! " 
Cordelia  ! 


There  is  a  star  above  me 

Unlike  all  the  millions  round  it. 
There  is  a  heart  to  love  me. 
Although  not  yet  I  have  found  it. 
And  awhile, 

O  Cordelia,  Cordelia  I 
A  light  and  careless  singer. 
In  the  subtle  South  I  linger, 
While  the  blue  is  on  the  mountain. 
And  the  bloom  is  on  the  peach. 
And  the  fire-fly  on  the  night, 

Cordelia  ! 
But  my  course  is  ever  nor- 

ward, 
And  a  whisper  whispers  *'  For- 
ward ! ' ' 
Arise,  O  wanderer,  seek  her, 
Seek  her  ever  out  of  reach, 
Out  of  reach  and  out  of  sight  I 
Cordelia  I 
Out  of  sight, 
Cordelia  I    Cordelia  ! 

Out  of  reach,  out  of  sight, 
Cordelia  I 


A  FANCY. 

now  sweet  were  life, — this  life,  if 
we 
(My  love  and  I)  might  dwell  to- 
gether 
Here  beyond  the  summer  sea. 
In  the  heart  of  summer  weather  1 

la 


With  pomegranates  on  the  bough, 
And  with  lilies  in  the  bower  ; 

And  a  sight  of  distant  snow, 
Rosy  in  the  sunset  hour. 

And  a  little  house, — no  more 
In    state    than    suits    two    quiet 
lovers  ; 
And  a  woodbine  round  the  door, 
Where    the    swallow    builds    and 
hovers  ; 

With  a  silver  sickle-moon. 

O'er  hot  gardens,  red  with  roses  : 
And  a  window  wide,  in  June, 

For     serenades     when     evening 
closes  : 

In  a  chamber  cool  and  simple, 
Trellised  light  from  roof  to  base- 
ment ; 
And  a  simimer  wind  to  dimple 
The  white    curtain  at  the    case- 
ment : 

Where,  if  we  at  midnight  wake, 
A  green  acacia-tree  shall  quiver 

In  the  moonlight,  o'er  some  lake 
Where  nightingales  sing  songs  for- 
ever. 

With  a  pine-wood  dark  in  sight  ; 

And  a  bean-neld  climbing  to  us. 
To  make  odors  faint  at  night 

VvTiere  we  roam  with  none  to  view 
us. 

And  a  convent  on  the  hill, 
Through    its    light    green    olives 
peeping 
In  clear  sunlight,  and  so  still. 
All    the    nuns,    you'd    say,   were 
sleeping. 

Seas  at  distance,  seen  beneath 
Grated  garden-wildernesses  ; — 

Not  so  far  but  what  their  breath 
At    eve    may    fan    my    darling's 
tresses. 

A  piano,  soft  in  sound, 

To    make    music    when    speech 
wanders. 
Poets  reverently  bound, 

O'er  whose  pagea  rapture  ponders. 


194 


THE  WANDERER. 


Canvas,  brushes,  hues,  to  catch 
Fleeting  forms  in  vale  or  moun- 
tain : 
And  an  evening  star  to  watch 
When  all  's  still,  save  one  sweet 
fountain. 

Ah  !  I  idle  time  away 

With  impossible  fond  fancies  I 
For  a  lover  lives  all  day 

In  a  land  of  lone  romances. 

But  the  hot  light  o'er  the  city 
Drops, — and  see  !  on  fire  departs. 

And  the  night  comes  down  in  pily 
To  the  longing  of  our  hearts. 

Bind  thy  golden  hair  from  falling, 
O  my  love,  my  one,  my  own  ! 

■Tis  for  thee  the  cuckoo's  calling 
With  a  note  of  tenderer  tone. 

Up  the  hillside,  near  and  nearer, 
Through  the  vine,  the  corn,  the 
tlowers, 

Till  the  very  air  grows  dearer. 
Neighboring  our  pleasant  bowers. 

Now  I  pass  the  last  Podere  : 
There,  the  city  lies  behind  me. 

See  her  fluttering  like  a  fairy 
O'er  the  happy  grass  to  tind  me  ! 

ONCE. 

A  FALLING  star  that  shot  across 
The  intricate  and  twinkling  dark 

Vauisht,  yet  left  no  sense  of  loss 
Throughout  the  wide  ethereal  arc 

1  )f  those  serene  and  solemn  skies 
That    round   the  dusky  prospect 
rose. 
And  ever  seemed  to  rise,  and  rise. 
Through  regions  of  unreached  re- 
pose. 

Far,    on    the    windless    mountain- 
range, 
One  crimson   sparklet  died  :   the 
blue 
Flushed  with  a  brilliance,  faint  ;md 
strange, 
The  ghost  of  daylight,  dying  too. 


But  half -revealed,  each  terrace  urn    \ 

Glimmered,  where  now,  in   filmy  < 

flight,  i 

We  watched  return,  and  still  return, , 

The  blind  bats  searching  air  for-; 

sight.  ! 

With  sullen  fits  of  fleeting  sound,      | 
Borne  half  asleep  on  slumbrous 
air, 
The  drovV'sy  beetle  hummed  around, 
And  passed,  and  oft  repassed  us, 
there  ; 

Where,  hand    in  hand,   om-    looks 
alight 
With  thoughts  om'  pale  lips  left 
untold, 
We  sat,  in  that  delicious  night, 
On  that  dim  terrace,   green  andl 
old. 

Deep  down,  far  off,  the  city  lay, 
When  forth  from  all  its  spires  was 
swept 
A  music  o'er  our  souls  ;  and  they 
To    music's    midmost     meanings 
leapt ; 

And,  crushing  some  delirious  cry 
Against  each  other's  lips,  we  clung 
Together  silent,  while  the  sky 
Throbbing  with  sound  around  us 
hung  ; 

For,  borne  from  bells  on  music  soft, 
That    solemn    hour    went    forth 
through  heaven. 
To  stir  the  starry  airs  aloft, 
And   thrill     the  pui-ple    pulse    of 
even. 

O  happy  hush  of  heart  to  heart  ! 

O  moment  molten  through  with 
bliss  ! 
O  liOve,  delaying  long  to  part 

That  first,  fast,  individual  kiss  I 

Whereon  two  lives  on  glowing  lips 
Hung  claspt,  each  feeling  fold  in 
fold, 
Like    daisies    closed   with  crimson 
tips, 
That  sleep  about  a  heart  of  gold. 


IN  ITAL  K 


195 


Was    it     some    drowsy    rose    that 
moved  ? 
Some    dreaming    dove's  pathetic 
moan  ? 
Or  was  it  my  name  from  lips  be- 
loved ? 
And  was  it  thy  sweet  breath,  mine 
own, 

That  made  me  feel  the  tides  of  sense 
O'er    life's    low  levels  rise  with 
might, 
And  pour  my  being  down  the  im- 
mense 
Shore  of  some  mystic  Infinite  ? 

"O,  have  I  found  thee,  my  soul's 
soul  I 
My  chosen  forth  from  time  and 
space  ! 
And  did  we  then  break  earth's  con- 
trol ? 
And  have  I  seen  thee  face  to  face? 

"  Close,   closer    to    thy  home,    my 
breast. 
Closer  thy  darling  arms  enfold  ! 
I  need  such  warmth,  for  else  the  rest 
Of  life  will  freeze  me  dead  with 
cold. 

"  Long  was   the  search,  the  effort 
long, 
Ere   I  compelled   thee  from  thy 
sphere, 
I  know  not  with  v.hat  mystic  song 
I    know   not   with  what   nightly 
tear : 

"But  thou  art  here,  beneath  whose 
eyes 

My  passion  falters,  even  as  some 
Pale  wizard's  taper  sinks,  and  dies. 

When  to  his  spell  a  spirit  is  come. 

"My  brow  is   pale  with   much  of 
pain  : 
Though  1  am  young,  my  youth  is 
gone. 
And,   shouldst  thou  leave  me  lone 
again, 
I  think  I  could  not  live  alone. 


**  As  some  idea,  half  divined, 
With    timiult    works  within    the 
brain 

Of  desolate  genius,  and  the  mind 
Is  vassal  to  imperious  pain, 

**  For  toil  by  day,  for  tears  by  night, 
Till,    in    the     sphere    of    vision 
brought, 
Rises  the  beautiful  and  bright 
Predestined,   but  relentless 
Thought ; 

*'  So,   gathering  up  the  dreams  of 
years. 
Thy  love  doth  to  its  destined  seat 
Rise  sovran,   through  the  light  of 
tears — 
Achieved,  accomplisht,  and  com- 
plete I 

"  I  fear  not  now  lest  any  hour 
Should  chill  the  lips  my  own  have 
prest  ; 

For  I  possess  thee  by  the  power 
Whereby  1  am  myself  possest. 

"  These  eyes  must  lose  their  guiding 
light  : 
These  lips  from  thine,  I  know, 
must  sever  ; 
O  looks  and  lips  may  disunite, 
But  ever  love  is  love  forever  1" 


SINCE. 

Words  like  to  these  were  said,  or 
dreamed 
(How  long  since  !)  on  a  night  di- 
vine. 
By  lips    from  which   such   rapture 
streamed 
j      I  cannot    deem    those    lips  were 
mine. 

The  day  comes  up  above  the  roofs, 
All  sallow  from  a  iiiglii  of  rain  ; 

The  sound  of  feet,  and  wlieels,  and 
hoofs 
In  the  biiured  street  begins  again  ; 


196 


THE  WANDERER. 


The  same  old  toil — no  end — no  aiml 
The  same  vile  babble  in  ray  ears  ; 

The  same   unmeaning  smiles  :   the 
same 
Most  miserable  dearth  of  tears. 

The  same  dull  sound  :  tbe  same  dull 
lack 
Of  lustre  in  the  level  gray  : 
It  seems  like  Yesterday  come  back 
With  his  old  things,  and  not  To- 
day. 

But  now  and  then  her  name  will  fall 
From    careless     lips    with    little 
praise, 
On  this  diy  shell,  and  shatter  all 
Tlie  smooth   indifference   of    my 
days. 

They  chatter    of    her  —  deem    her 
light— 
The    apes  and    liars  !    they  who 
know 
As  well  to  sound  the  unfathomed 
Night 
As  her  impenetrable  woe  ! 

And  here,  where  Slander's  scorn  is 
spilt. 

And  gabbling  Folly  clucks  above 
Her  addled  eggs,  it  feels  like  guilt. 

To  know  that  far  away,  my  love 

Her  heart  on  every  heartless  hour 
Is  bruising,  breaking,  for  my  sake: 

\VIiile,  coiled  and  numbed,  and  void 
of  power. 
My  life  sleeps  like  a  winter  snake. 

I  know  that  at  the  mid  of  night, 
(When  she  flings  by  the  glittering 
stress 
Of  Pride,  that  mocks  the  vulgar  sight. 
And  fronts  her  chamber's  loneli- 
ness, ) 

She  breaks  in  tears,  and,  overthrown 
With  sorrowing,  weeps  the  night 
away. 

Till  back  to  his  unlovely  throne 
Betums  the  unrelenting  day. 


All    treachery    coxild    devise    hath   j 

wrought 

Against  us  : — letters  robbed  and    i 

read  : 

Snares    hid     in     smiles  :     betrayal   ! 

bought :  : 

And  lies  imputed  to  the  dead.  | 

I  will  arise,  and  go  to  her,  ' 

And  save  her  in  her  own  despite  ;  ' 

For  in  my  breast  begins  to  stir 

A  pulse  of  its  old  power  and  might.  1 

They  cannot  so  have  slandered  me       | 
But  what,  I  know,  if  I  should  call 

And  stretch  my  arms  to  her,  that  she 
Would  rush  into  them,  spite  of  all. 

In    Life's    great    lazar-house,   each 

breath 

We  breathe  may  bring  or  spread 

the  pest  ;  [death 

And,   woman,  each  may   catch  his 

From    those  that  lean  ujDon  his 

breast. 

I  know  how  tender  friends  of  me 
Have  talked  with  broken  hint,  and 
glance  : 
— The  choicest  flowers  of  calumny. 
That  seem,  like  weeds,  to  spring 
from  chance  ; — 

That  small,  small,  imperceptible 
Small  talk,  which  cuts  like  pow- 
dered glass 
Ground  in  Tophana — none  can  tell 
Where  lurks  the  power  the  poison 
has  ! 

I  may  be  worse  than  they  would 
prove, 
(Who    knows    the  worst  of    any 
man  ?  ) 
But,   right  or  wrong,  be    sure    my 
love 
Is  not  what  they  conceive,  or  can. 

Nor  do  I  question  what  thou  art. 
Nor  what  thy  life,   in    great    or 
small, 
Thou  art,  I  know,  what  all  my  heart 
Must  beat  or  break  for.     That  is 
alL 


IN  ITAir. 


29'? 


A  LOYE-LETTER. 

My    love,  —  my    chosen, — but  not 
mine  !  I  send 
My  Trhole  heart  to  thee  in  these 
words  I  write  ; 
So  let  the  blotted  lines,  my  soul's 
sole  friend, 
Lie  upon  thine,  and  there  be  blest 
at  night. 

This  flower,   whose  bruised  purple 
blood  will  stain 
The  page  now  wet  with  the  hot 
tears  that  fall — 
(Indeed,  indeed,   I    struggle*  to    re- 
strain 
This  weakness,  but  the  tears  come, 
spite  of  all  !  ) 

I  plucked  it  from  the  branch  you 
used  to  praise. 
The  branch  that  hides  the  wall. 
I  tend  your  flowers. 
I  keep  the  paths  we  paced  in  happier 
days. 
How  long  ago  they  seem,  those 
pleasant  "hours. 

The  white  labiu-num's  out.      Tour 

judas-tree 

Begins  to  shed  those  crimson  buds 

of  his.  [ously 

The  nightingales  sing — ah,  too  joy- 

Who  says'those  birds  are  sad  ?    I 

think  there  is 

That  in  the  books  we  read,  which 
deeper  wrings 
My  heart,  so  they  lie  dusty  on  the 
shelf. 
Ah  me,  I  meant  to  speak  of  other 
things 
Less  sad.    In  Tain  I  they  bring  me 
to  myself. 

I  know  your  patience.     And  I  would 
not  cast 
New  shade  on  days  so  dark  as 
yours  are  grown 
By  weak  and  wild  repining  for  the 
past. 
Since  it,  is  past  forever,  O  mine 
own ! 


For  hard  enough  the  daily  cross  you 
bear. 
Without  that  deeper  pain  reflec- 
tion brings  ; 
And  all  too  sore  the  fretful  house- 
hold care, 
Free  of  the  contrast  of  remembered 
things. 

But  ah  !    it  little    profits,  that  we 
thrust 
For  all  that's  said,  what  both  must 
fell,  unnamed. 
Better  to  face  it  boldly,  as  we  must, 
Than  feel  it  in  the  silence,  and  be 
shamed. 

Irene,   I  have    loved  you,  as    men 
love 
Light,  music,  odor,  beauty,  love  it- 
self !— 
Whatever  is  apart  from,  and  above 
Those  daily  needs  which  deal  with 
diist  and  pelf. 

And  I  had  been  content,  without  one 
thought 
Our  guardian   angels  could  have 
blusht  to  know, 
So  to  have  lived  and  died,  demand- 
ing nought 
Save,  living  dying,  to  have  loved 
you  so. 

My  youth  was  orphaned,  and  my  age 
will  be 
Childless.    I  have  no  sister.    None, 
to  steal 
One  stray  thought  from  the  many 
thoughts  of  thee, 
Which    are  the    source    of    all  I 
think  and  feel. 

My  wildest  wish  was  \assal   to  thy 
vnW: 
My  haughtiest  hope,  a  pensioner 
on  thy  smile, 
"Which  did  with  light  my  barren  be 
ing  fill. 
As  moonlight  glorifies  some  desert 
isle. 


198 


THE  WAl^D^RER. 


\  never  thought  to  know    what  I 
have  known, — 
The  rapture,  dear,  of  being  loved 
by  you  : 
I  never  thought,  within  my  heart,  to 
own 
One  wish  so  blest  that  you  should 
share  it  too  : 

Nor  ever  did   I  deem,  contemplat- 
ing 
The  many  sorrows  in  this  place  of 
pain. 
So  strange  a  sori'ow  to  my  life  could 
cling. 
As,  being  thus  loved,  to  be  beloved 
in  vain. 

But    now    we  know  the  best,   the 
worst.     We  have 
Interred,  and  prematurely,  and  un- 
known, 
Our  youth,  our  hearts,  our  hopes,  in 
one  small  grave. 
Whence  we    must    wander,  wid- 
owed, to  our  own. 

And  if  we  comfort  not  each  other, 
what 
Shall  comfort  us,  in  the  dark  days 
to  come  ? 
Not  the  light  laughter  of  the  world, 
and  not 
The  faces  and  the  firelight  of  fond 
home. 

And  80  I  write  to  you  ;  and  write, 
and  write. 
For  the  mere  sake  of  writing  to 
you,  dear. 
What  can  I  tell  you,  that  you  know 
not  ?    Night 
Is    deepening"  through    the    rosy 
atmosphere 

About  the  lonely  casement  of  this 
room, 
Which  you  have  left  familiar  with 
the  grace 
That  grows  where  you  have  been. 
And  on  the  gloom 
I  almost  fancy  I  can  see  your  face. 


Not  pale  with  pain,   and  tears  re- 
strained for  me. 
As  when  I  last  beheld  it  ;  but  as 
first, 
A  dream  of  rapture  and  of  poesy, 
Upon   my   youth,  like   dawn    on 
dark,  it  burst. 

Perchance  I  shall  not  ever  see  again 
That  face.     I   know  that  I  shall 
never  see 
Its  radiant  beauty  as  I  saw  it  then. 
Save    by    this     lonely     lamp     of 
memory, 

With  childhood's  starry  graces  linges 
ing  yet 
I'  the  rosy  orient  of  young  woman- 
hood ; 
And  eyes  like  woodland  violets  newly 
wet ; 
And  lips  that  left  their  meaning 
in  my  blood  ! 

I  will  not  say  to  you  what  I  might 
say 
To   one  less  worthily  loved,  less 
worthy  love. 
I  will  not  say  .  .  .  *' Forget  the  past. 
Be  gay. 
And  let  the  all  ill-judging  world 
approve 

"  Light  in  your  eyes,   and  laughter 
on  your  lip." 
I  will  not  say  .  .  .  **  Dissolve  in 
thought  forever 
Our  sorrowful,    but  sacred,  fellow- 
ship," 
For  that   would    be,   to  bid  you, 
dear,  dissever 

Your  nature  from  its  nobler  heritage 
In  consolations  registered  in  hea- 
ven. 
For  griefs  this  world  is  barren  to  as- 
suage. 
And  hopes  to  which,  on  earth,  no 
home  is  given. 

But  I  would  whisper,  what  forever- 
more 
My  own  heart  whispers  through 
the  wakeful  night,  .  .  . 


IN  ITALY. 


199 


"  Tliis  grief  is  but  a  shadow,  flung 
before. 
From  some    refulgent    substance 
out  of  siglit." 

Wlierefore  it  happens,  in  this  riddling 
worid, 
That,  where  sin  came  not,  sorrow 
yet  should  be  ; 
Why  heaven's  most  hurtful  thunders 
should  be  hurled 
At  what  seems  noblest  in  human- 
ity ; 

And  we  are  punished  for  our  purest 
deeds, 
And    chastened    for    our  holiest 
thoughts  ;  .  .  .  alas  ! 
There  is  no  reason  found  in  all  the 
creeds. 
Why  these  things  are,  nor  whence 
they  come  to  pass. 

But  in  the  heart  of  man,  a  secret 
voice 
There  is,  which  speaks,  and  will 
not  be  restrained, 
Which  cries  to  Grief  ....  *'Weep 
on,  while  I  rejoice. 
Knowing  that,  somewhere,  all  will 
be  explained." 

I  will  not  cant  that  commonplace  of 
friends, 
Which  never  yet  hath  dried  one 
mourner's  tears. 
Nor  say  that  grief's   slow  wisdom 
makes  amends 
For  broken  hearts  and  desolated 
years. 

For  who  would  barter  all  he  hopes 
from  life. 
To  be  a  little  wiser  than  his  kind  ? 
Who  arm  his  nature  for  continued 
strife, 
Where  all  he  seeks  for  hath  been 
left  behind  ? 

But  I  would  say,  O  pure  and  perfect 
pearl 
Which  1  have  dived  sc  deep  in  life 
to  find, 


Locked  In  my  heart  thou  Host.    The 
wave  may  curl, 
The    wind    may  wail    above    us. 
Wave  and  wind, 

What  are  their  storm  and  strife  to 
me  and  you  ? 
No  strife  can  mar  the  pure  heart's 
inmost  calm. 
This  life  of  ours,  what  is  it  ?  A  very 
fevv 
Soon-ended  years,  and  then, — the 
ceaseless  psalm, 

And    the    eternal    sabbath    of    the 
soul  I 
Hush  I  .  .  .  .  while  I  write,  from 
the  dim  Carmine' 
The  midnight  angelus  begins  to  roll, 
And  float  athwart  the  darkness  up 
to  me. 

My  messenger   (a    man  by  danger 

tried) 

Waits  in  the  courts  below  ;   and 

ere  our  star  [died, 

Upon  the  forehead  of  the  dawn  hath 

Beloved  one,  this  letter  will  be  far 

Athwart  the  mountain,  and  the  mist> 
to  you. 
I  know  each  robber  hamlet.     I 
know  all 
This     moimtain    people.      I    have 
friends,  both  true 
And  trusted,  sworn  to  aid  whatever 
befall. 

I  have  a  bark  upon  the  gulf.     And  I, 
If  to  my  heart  I  yielded  in  thisi 
hour, 
Might  say  .    .    .  "  Sweet  fellow-suf- 
ferer, let  us  fly  I 
I  know  a  little  isle  which  doth  em- 
bower 

"  A  home  where  exiled  angels  might 
forbear 
Awhile  to  mourn  for  paradise."  .  . 
But  no  ! 
Never,  whate'er  fate  now  may  bring 
us,  dear, 
Shalt  thou  reproach  me  for  that 
only  woe 


200 


THE  WANDERER. 


Which  even  love  is  powerless  to  con" 
sole  ; 
Which  dwells  where  duty  dies  : 
and  haunts  the  tomb 
Of  life's  abandoned  purpose  in  the 
soul ; 
And  leaves  to.  hope,  in  heaven  it- 
self, no  room. 

Man  cannot  make,  but  may  ennoble, 
fate. 
By  nobly  bearing  it.     So  let  us 
trust. 
Not  to  ourselves,  but  God,  and  calm- 
ly wait 
Love's  orient,  out  of  darkness  and 
of  dust. 

Farewell,  and  yet  again  farewell,  and 
yet 
Never  farewell, — if  farewell  mean 
to  fare 
Alone  and  disunited.     Love  hath  set 
Our  days,  in  music,  to  the  self- 
same air  ; 

And  I  shall  feel,  wherever  we  may 
be, 
Even  though  in  absence  and  an 
alien  clime, 
The  shadow  of    the    sunniness    of 
thee, 
Hovering,  in  patience,  through  a 
clouded  time. 

Farewell  !    The  dawn  is  rising,  and 
the  light 
Is  making,  in  the  east,  a  faint  en- 
deavor 
To  illuminate  the  moimtain  peaks. 
Good-night. 
Thine  own,  and  only  thine,  my 
love,  forever. 


CONDEMNED  ONES. 

Above  thy  child  I  saw  thee  bend, 
Where  in  that  silent  room  we  sat 

apart. 
5  watched  the  involuntary  tear  de- 


The  firelight  was  not  all  so  dim,  my 

friend, 
But  I  could  read  thy  heart. 

Yet  when,  in  that  familiar  room, 
I  strove,  so  moveless  in  my  place, 
To  look  with  comfort  in  thy  face, 
That  child's  young  smile  was  all  that 

I  could  see 
Ever  between  us  in  the  thoughtful 

gloom, — 
Ever  between  thyself  and  me, — 
With  its  bewildering  grace. 

Life  is  not  what  it  might  have  been, 

Nor  are  we  what  we  would  ! 

And   we   must  meet  with    smiling 

mien. 
And  part  in  careless  mood. 
Knowing  that  each  retains  unseen. 
In  cells  of  sense  subdued, 
A  little  lurking  secret  of  the  blood — 
A    little    serpent  -  secret    rankling 

keen — 
That  makes  the  heart  its  food. 

Yet  is  there  much  for  grateful  tears, 

if  sad  ones. 
And  Hope's  young  orphans  Memory 

mothers  yet ; 
So  let  them  go,  the  sunny  days  we 

had  once, 
Our  night  hath  stars  that  will  uot 

ever  set. 
And  in  our  hearts  are  harps,  albeit 

uot  glad  ones. 
Yet  not    all   unmelodious,  through 

whose  strings 
The  night-winds  murmur  their  fa- 
miliar things, 
Unto   a  kindred  sadness  :    the  sea 

brings 
The    spirits    of    its    solitude,   with 

wings 
Folden  about  the  music  of  its  lyre. 
Thrilled  with  deep  duals  by  sublime 

desire. 
Which  never   can  attain,  yet  ever 

must  aspire, 
4iid  glorily  regret. 


/A'  ITALY. 


20Z 


What  might  have  been,  I  know,  is 

not : 
What  must  be,  must  be  borne  : 
But,  ah  !  what  hath  been  will  not 

be  forgot. 
Never,  oh  !   never,  in  the  years  to 

follow  ! 
Though  all  their  summers  light  a 

waste  forlorn, 
Yet  shall  there  be  (hid  from  the  care- 
less swallow 
And  sheltered  from  the  bleak  wind 

in  the  thorn) 
In  Memory's  mournful  but  beloved 

hollow, 
One  dear  green  spot  ! 

Hope,  the  high  will  of  Heaven 

To  help  us  hath  not  given. 

But  more  than  unto  most  of  consola- 
tion : 

Since  heart  from  heart  may  borrow 

Healing  for  deep  heart-sorrow. 

And  draw  from  yesterday,  to  soothe 
to-morrow, 

The  sad,  sweet  divination 

Of  that  unuttered  sympathy,  which 
is 

Love's  sorceress,  and  for  Love's  dear 
sake. 

About  us  both  such  spells  doth 
make. 

As  none  can  see,  and  none  can 
break, 

And  none  restrain  ; — a  secret  pain 

Claspt  to  a  secret  bliss. 

A  tone,  a  touch, 
A  little  look,  may  be  so  much  ! 
Those  moments  brief,  nor  often, 
When,    leaning     laden     breast     to 

breast. 
Pale  cheek  to  cheek,  life,  long  re- 

prest. 
May  gush  with  tears  that  leave  half 

blest 
The  want  of  bliss  they  soften. 
The  little  glance  across  the  crowd. 
None  else  can  read,  wherein  there 

lies 
A  lifti  of  loyo  at  onc«  avQW<$4— 


The  embrace  of  pining  eyes.  .  .  . 
So  little  more  had  made  earth  heav- 
en, 
That  hope  to  help  us  was  not  given  J 


THE  STORM. 

Both  hollow  and  hill  were  dmnb  aa 
death, 
While    the     skies    were     silently 

changing  form  ; 
And    the    dread    forecast  of  the 
thunder-storm 
Made  the  crouched  land  hold  in  its 
breath. 

But  the  monstrous  vapor  as  yet  was 
unriven 
That  was  breeding  the  thunder 

and  lightning  and  rain  ; 
And  the  wind  that  was  waiting  to 
ruin  the  plain 
Was  yet  fast  in  some  far  hold  of 
heaven. 

So,  in   absolute  absence  of  stir  or 
strife, 
The  red  land   lay  as    still  as    a 

irif  ted  leaf  : 
The  roar  of  the  thunder  had  been 
a  relief. 
To  the  calm  of  that  death-brooding 
life. 

At  the  wide-flung  casement  she  stood 
full  height. 
With  her  long  rolling  hair  tumbled 

all  down  her  back  ; 
And,  against  the  black  sky's  super- 
natural black, 
Her  white  neck  gleamed  scornfully 
white. 

I  could  catch  not  a  gleam  of  her 
angered  eyes 
(She   was    sullenly   watching  the 

slow  storm  roll), 
But  I  felt  they  were  drawing  down 
into  her  soul 
The  thunder  Uiat  daj-keued  tUe  ni^^g. 


2G2 


THE  WAN-DilRER. 


And  how  could  I  feign,  in  that  heart- 
less gloom, 
To    be    carelessly    reading    that 

stupid  page  ? 
What  harm,  if  I  flung  it  in  anguish 
and  rage, 
Her  book,  to  the  end  of  the  room  ? 

'*  And  so,  do  we  part  thus  forever  ?  " 
...  I  said, 
*'  O,  speak   only  one  word,  and  I 

pardon  the  rest  !  " 
She  drew  her  white  scarf  tighter 
over  her  breast, 
But  she  never  once  turned  roimd 
her  head. 

"In  this  wicked   tin   world  is  there 
uaught  to  disdain  ? 
Or  " —  I     groaned  —  "  are     those 
dark    eyes    such     deserts    of 
blindness. 
That,  O  Woman  !  your  heart  must 
hoard  all  its  mikindness. 
For  the  man  on  whose  breast  it  hath 
lain? 

**  Leave  it  nameless,  the  grave  of  the 
grief  that  is  past ; 
Be    its   sole  sign  the  silence  we 

keep  for  its  sake. 
I  have  loved  you — lie   still  in  my 
lip.Tt  till  it  break  : 
As  I  loved,  1  must  love  to  the  last. 

*'  Speak  !   the    horrible    silence    is 
stifling  njy  soul." 
She  tiu-ned  on  me  at  once  all  the 

storm  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  I  heard  the  low  thunder  aloof 
in  the  skies. 
Beginning  to  mutter  and  roll. 

She  tm"ned  —  by  the  lightning  re- 
vealed in  its  glare. 
And  the  tempest  had  clothed  her 

with  ■■.error  :  it  clung 
To  the  folds  of  her  vaporous  gar- 
ments, and  hung 
Ib  the  heaps  of  her  heavy  wild  hair. 


But  one  word  broke  the  silence  ;  but  if 
one  ;  and  it  fell  ' 

With  the  weight  of  a  mountain 

upon  me.     Next  moment 
The  fierce  levin  flashed  in  my  eyes.  ! 
From  my  comment  • 

She  was  gone  when  1  turned.     Who  1 
can  tell 

How    I  got  to    my  home    on  the 

mountain  ?    I  know 

That  the  thunder  was  rolling,  the  ! 

lightning  still  flashing,  | 

The  great  bells  were   tolling,  my  i 

very  brain  crashing  , 

In  my  head,  a  few  hours  ago  :  i 

Then  all  hushed.     In  t'le  distance 
the  blue  rain  receded  ;  | 

And  the  fragments  of  storm  were  ! 
spread  out  on  the  hills  ;  j 

Hard  by,  from  my  lattice,  I  heard 
the  far  rills 
Leaping  down  their  rock-channels^ 
wild-weeded. 

The  round,  red  moon  was  yet  low  in 
the  air.  .  .  . 
O,  I   knew  it,  foresaw  it,  and  felt 

it,  before 
I  heard   her  light  hand     on  the 
latch  of  the  door  ! 
WTien  it  opened  at  last, — she   was 
there. 

Childlike,  and  wistful,  and  sorrow- 
ful-eyed, 
With  the  rain  on  her  hair,  and  the 

rain  on  her  cheek  ; 
She  knelt  do^vn,    with  her    fair 
forehea^d  fallen  and  nie^'k 
In  the  light  of  the  moon  at  my  muo. 

And  she  called  me  by  every  caressing 
old  name 
Slie  of  old  had  invented  and  chosen 

for  me  : 
She  crouched  at  my  feet,  v/ith  her 
cheek  on  my  knee. 
Like  a  wild  thing  grown  suddenly 
tame. 


IN  ITALY. 


203 


In    tlie    world    there    are    women 
enough,  maids  or  mothers  ; 
Yet,  in  multiplied  millions,  I  never 

should  find 
The  symbol  of  aught  in  her  face, 
or  her  mind. 
She  has  nothing  in  common  with 
others. 

And  che  loves  mo  !  This  morning  the 
earth,  pressed  beneath 
Her   light  foot,   keeps  the   print. 

'Twas  no  vision  last  night, 
For  the  lily    she   dropped,  as  she 
went,  is  yet  white 
With  the  dew  on  its  delicate  sheath  ! 


THE   VAMPIIIE. 

I  FOUND  a  corpse,  with  golden  hair. 

Of  a  maiden  seven  months  dead. 
But  the  face,  with  the  death  in  it, 
still  was  fair, 
And  the  lips  with  their  love  were 

red. 
Eose  leaves  on  a  snow-drift  shed, 
IVi.. oil-drops  by  Adonis  bled, 
Doubtless  were  not  so  red. 

I  combed  her  hair  into  curls  of  gold. 
And  I  kissed  her  li|>s  till  her  lips 
were  warm, 
And  I  bathed  her  body  in  moonlight 
cold. 
Till  she  grew  to  a  living  form  : 
Till  she  stood  up  bold  to   a  magic  of 
old, 
And     walked     to      a     muttered 

charm — 
Life-like,  without  alarm. 

And  Bhe  walks  by  me  and  she  talks 
by  me, 
Evermore,  night  and  day  ; 
For  she  lovess  me  so,  that,  wherever 
I  go, 
She  follows  me  all  the  way — 
This  corpse  —  you   would   almost 

say 
There  pined  a  soul  Lq  the  clay. 


Her  eyes  are  so  bright  at  the  dead  oi 
night 
That  they  keep  me  awake  witli 
dread  ; 
And  my  life-blood  fails  in  my  veinSf 
and  pales 
At  the  sight  of  her  lips  so  red  : 
For  her  face  is  as  white  as  the  pillow 
by  night 
Where  she  kisses  me  on  my  bed  : 
All  lier  gold  hair  outspread — 
Neither  alive  nor  dead. 

I  would  that  this  woman's  head 
Were  less  golden  about  the  hair  ' 

I  would  her  lips  were  less  red, 
And  her  face  less  deadly  fair. 
For  this  is  the  worst  to  bear — 
How  came  that  redness  there  ? 

'Tis  my  heart,  be   sure,  she  eats  for 
her  food  ; 
And   it  makes  one's  whole  flesh 
creep 
To  think  that  she  drinks  and  drains 
my  blood 
Unawares,  when  I  am  asleep. 
How    else    could  those    red  lipb 

keep 
Their  redness  so  damson-deep  ? 

There's  a  thought  like  a  serpent, 
slips 
Ever  into  my  heart  and  head, — 
There  are   plenty  of  women,  alive 
and  human. 
One  might  woo,  if  one  wished,  and 
wed— 
Women  with  hearts,  and  brains , — ay 
and  lips 
Not  DO  very  terribly  red. 

But  to  house  with  a  corpse — and  she 

so  fair, 
With  that  dim,   unearthly,   golden 
hair. 
And  those  sad,  serene,  blue  eyes, 
vVith  their  looks  from  who  knows 
where, 
Which  Death  has  made  so  wise, 
With  the    grave' 3    own    secTQt 
there — 


204 


THE   WANDERER, 


It  Is    more  than    a   man    can 

bear  ! 
It  were  better  for  me,  ere  I  came 
nigh  her,  [her, 

This    corpse — ere  I  looked  upon 
Had  they  burned  my  body  in  fiame 
and  fire 
With  a  sorcerer's  dishoiKT. 
For  when  the  Devil  hath  made  his 
lair. 
And  lurks  in  the  eyes  of  a  fair 
young  woman 
I  To  grieve  a  man's  soul  with  her 
golden  hair. 
And  break  his  heart  if  his  heart 
be  human), 
Would  not  a  saint  despair 
To  be  saved  by  fast  or  prayer 
From  perdition  made  so  fair  ? 

CHANGE. 

She  is  unkind,  unkind  ! 

On  the  windy  hill,  to-day, 

I  sat  in  the  somid  of  the  wind. 

1  knew  what  the  wind  would  say. 

It  said   ....    or  seemed  to*  my 

mind  .  .  . 
The  flowers  are  falling  away. 
The  summer,"  ...  it  said,  .... 

"  will  not  stay. 
And  Love  will  be  left  behind." 

The  swallows  were  swinging  theia- 

selves 
In  the  leaden-gray  air  aloft  ; 
Flitting  by  tens  and  twelves!, 
And  returning  oft  and  oft  ; 
Like  the  thousand  thoughts  in  me, 
That  went,  and  came,  and  went, 
Not  letting  me  even  be 
Mone  with  my  discontent. 

The  hard-vext  weary  vane 
Rattled,  and  moaned  and  was  still, 
In  the  convent  over  the  plain, 
By  the  side  of  the  windy  hill. 
It  was  sad  to  hear  it  complain. 
So  fretful,  and  weak,  and  ^'hriil, 
Again,  and  again,  and  in  vain, 
While  the  wind  was  changing  his 
TfilV 


I  thought  of  our  walks  last  summer 
By  the  convent-walls  so  green  ;  [ 

On  the  first  kiss  stolen  from  her,        ' 
With  no  one  near  to  be  seen. 
I  thought  (as  we  wandered  on, 
Each  of  us  waiting  to  speak)  ' 

How  the  daylight  left  us  alone. 
And  left  his  'ast  light  on  her  cheek.  [ 

I 
The  plain  was  as  cold  and  gray 
(With    its    villas    like    glimmering 

shells) 
As  some  north-ocean  bay.  ! 

All  dmnb  in  the  church  were   the 

bells. 
In  the  mist,  half  a  league  away, 
Lay  the  little  white  house  where  she 

dwells. 

I  thought  of  her  face  so  bright, 
By  the  firelight  bending  low 
O'er  her  work  so  neat  and  white  ; 
Of  her  singing  so  soft  and  slow  ; 
Of  her  tender-toned  "  Good-nignt;" 
But  a  very  few  nights  ago. 

O'er  the  convent  doors,  I  could  see 
A  pale  and  sorrowful-eyed 
Madonna  looking  at  me. 
As  when  Our  Lord  first  died. 


There  was  not  a  lizard  or  spider 
To  be  seen  on  the  broken  walls. 
The  ruts,  with  the  rain,  had  gi-own 

wider 
And  blacker  since  last  night's  falls. 
O'er  the  universal  dulness 
There  broke  not  a  single  beam, 
I  thought  how  my  love  at  its  fulr;*'^^ 
Had  changed  like    a    change  in  c, 

dream. 

The  olives  were  shedding  fast 
About  me,  to  left  and  right, 
In  the  lap  of  the  scornful  blast 
Black  berries  and  leaflets  white. 
I  thought  of  the  many  romances 
One  wintry  word  can  blight  ; 
Of  the  tender  and  timorous  fancies 
By  a  cold  lools  put  to  flight. 


7.^  ITALY, 


205 


How  many  noble  deeds 
Strangled  perchance  at  their  birth  ! 
The  smoke  of  the  burning  weeds 
Came    up  with  the  steam    of    the 

earth, 
From  the  red.  wet  ledges  of  soil, 
And  the  sere  vines,  row  over  row, — 
And  the  vineyard-men  at  their  toil, 
Who  sang  in  the  vineyard  below. 

Last  Spring,  while  I  thought  of  her 

here, 
I  found  a  red  rose  on  the  hill. 
There  it  lies,  withered  and  sere  ! 
Let  him  trust  to  a  woman  who  will. 

I  thought  how  her  words  had  grown 

colder. 
And  lier  fair  face  colder  still. 
From  the  hour  whose  silence  had 

told  her 
What  has  left  me  heart-broken  and 

ill; 
And  '^  Oh  I"  I  thought,  .  .  .  *'  if  I 

behold  her 
Walking  there  with  him  under  the 

hill ! " 

O'er  the  mist,  from  the  mournful 

city 
The  blear  lamps  gleamed  aghast, — 
— *'She    has     neither    justice,    nor 

pity," 
Ithouglit,  .  .  .  "all's  over  at  last," 
The  cold  eve  came.     One  star 
Through  a  ragged  gray  gap  forlorn 
B'ell  down  from  some  region  afar, 
And  sickened  as  soon  as  born. 
1  thought,  "  How  long  and  how  lone 
The  years  will  seem  to  be. 
When  the  last  of  her  looks  is  gone, 
And  my  heart  is  silent  in  me  ! " 

One  streak  of  scornful  gold, 
In  the  cloudy  and  billowy  west. 
Burned  with  a  light  as  cold 
As  love  in  a  much-wronged  breast. 
I  thought  of  her  face  so  fair  ; 
Of  her  perfect  bosom  and  arm  ; 
Of  her  deep  sweet  eyes  and  hair  ; 
Of  her  breath  so  pure  aiid  wai-m  ; 


Of  her  foot  so  fine  and  fairy 
Through  the  meadows  where    she 

would  pass  ; 
Of  the  sweep  of  her  skirts  so  airy 
And  fragrant  over  the  grabs. 

I  tliought  .  .  .  *'  Can  I  live  without 

her 
Whatever  she  do,  or  say  ?" 
I  thought ..."  Can  I  dare  to  doubt 

her, 
Now  when  I  have  given  away 
My  whole  self,  body  and  spirit. 
To  keep,  or  to  cast  aside. 
To  dower  or  disinherit, — 
To  use  as  she  may  decide  ?  " 

The  West  was  beginning  to  close 
O'er  the  last  light  burning  there. 
I    thought  ..."  And    when    that 

goes, 
The  dark  will  be  everywhere  I " 

Oh  !  well  is  it  hidden  from  man 
Whatever  the  Future  may  bring. 
The  bells  in  the  church  began 
On  a  sudden  to  sound  and  swing. 
The  chimes  on  the  gust  were  caught. 
And  rolled  up  the  windy  height. 
I  rose,  and  returned,  and  thought .  . 

"1      SHALL      NOT      SEE      HEIt      TO- 
NIGHT." 


A  CHAIN  TO  WEAR. 

Away  !    away  I     The    dream    was 
vain. 
We  meet  too  soon,  or  meet  too 
late  : 
Still  wear,   as  best    you    may,    the 
chain 
Your  own  hands  forged  about  your 
fate, 

Wlio  could  not  wait  ! 

What  !  .  .  .  you  had  given  your  life 
away 
Before  you  found  what  most  lifsj 
misses  '? 
Forsworn  the  bridal  dream,  you  say, 
Of  that  ideal  love,  whose  kissea 
Are  \  ain  as  tUg  is  I 


206 


THE  WANDERER. 


Well,  I  have  left  upon  your  month 
The  seal  I  know  must  burn  there 

My  claim  is  set  upon  your  youth  ; 
My  sign  upon  your  soul  is  set  : 
Dare  you  forget  ? 

And  you  '11  haunt,  I   know,  where 
music  plays, 
Yet  find  a  pain  in  music's  tone  ; 
You  '11  blush,  of  course,  when  others 
praise 
That   beauty  scarcely  now    y.>ur 
own. 

What's  done,  is  done  ! 

For    me,    you    say,    the    world    is 
wide, — 
Too  wide  to  find  the  grave  I  seek  ! 
Enough  !  whatever  now  betide. 
No  greater  pang  can  blanch   my 
cheek. 

Hush  !  ...  do  not  speak. 

SILENCE. 

Words  of  fire,  and  words  of  scorn, 
I  have  written.     Let  them  go  ! 

Words  of  love — heart-broken,  torn. 
With  tbis  strong  and  sudden  woe. 

All  my  scorn,  she  could  not  doubt. 

Was  but  love  turned  inside  out. 

Silence,  silence,  still  unstirred  ; 

Long,  unbroken,  unexplained  : 
Not  one  word,  one  little  word. 

Even    to    show    her    touched    or 
pained  : 
Silence,  silence,  all  unbroken  : 
Not  a  sound,  a  sign,  a  token. 

Well,  let  silence  gather  round 
All  this  shattered  life  of  mine. 

Shall  I  break  it  by  a  sound  ? 
Let  it  grow,  and  be  divine — 

Divine  as  that  Prometheus  kept 

When  for  his  sake  the  sea-nymphs 
wept. 

Let  silence  settle,  still  and  deep  ; 

As  the  mist,  the  thunder-cloud, 
O'er  the  lonely  blasted  steep, 

Which    the    red    bolt   hath    not 
bowed, 


Settle,  to  drench  out  the  star. 
And  cancel  the  blue  vales  afar. 

In  this  silence  I  will  sheathe 
The  sharp  edge  and  point  of  all 

Not  a  sigh  my  lips  shall  breathe  ;,      ' 
Not  a  groan,  whate'er  befall. 

And  let  this  sworded  silence  be  I 

A  fence  'twixt  prying  fools  and  me,  ^ 

Let  silence  be  about  her  name, 
And   o'er  the  things  which  once 

have  been  :  i 

Let  silence  cover  up  my  shame,  ,' 

And  annul  that  face,  once  seen  | 

In  fatal  hours,  and  all  the  light  , 

Of  those  eyes  extinguish  quite.  '. 

In  silence,  I  go  forth  alone 

O'er  the  solemn  mystery 
Of  the  deeds  which,  to  be  done, 

Yet  undone  in  the  future  lie.  i 

I  peer  in  Time's  high  nests,  and  there t 
Espy  the  callow  brood  of  Care, 

The  fledgelessnurselingsof  Regret, 
With  beaks  forever  stretched  for 
food  : 

But  why  should  I  forecount  as  yet 
The  ravage  of  that  vulture  brood  ?  ? 

O'er  all  these  things  let  silence  stay,  ,! 

And  lie,  like  snow,  along  my  way. 

Let  silence  in  this  outraged  heart 
Abide,  and  seal  these  lips  forever; 

Let  silence  dwell  with  me  apart 
Beside  the  ever-babbling  river 

Of  that  loud  life  in  towns,  that  runs 

Blind  to  the  changes  of  the  suns. 

Ah  !  from  what  most  mournful  star, 
Wasting  down  on  evening's  edge, 

Or  what  barren  isle  afar 
Flung  by  on  some  bare  ocean  ledge, 

Came  the  wicked  hag  to  us, 

That  changed  the  fairy  revel  thus  ? 

There  were  sounds  from  sweet  gui- 
tars 
Once,  and  lights  from  lamps  of 
amber; 


m  ITAL  V. 


207 


Both  went  up  among  the  stars 
From    many   a  perfumed  palace- 
chamber  : 
Suddenly  the  place  seemed  dead  ; 
Light  and  music  both  were  fled. 

Darkness  in  each  perfumed  chamber ; 

Darkness,  silence,  in  the  stars  ; 
Darkness  on  the  lamps  of  amber  ; 

Silence  in  the  sweet  guitars  : 
Darkness,  silence,  evermore 

Guard  empty  chamber,  moveless 
door. 

N^WS. 

News,  news,   news,   my   gossiping 
friends  ! 
I  have  wonderful  news  to  tell. 
A  lady,  by    me,    her    compliments 
sends  ; 
And  this  is  the  news  from  Hell  : 

The  Devil  is  dead.   He  died  resigned, 

Though     somewhat     opprest     by 

cares  ; 

But  his  wife,  my  friends,  is  a  woman 

of  mind, 

And  looks  after  her  lord's  affairs. 

I  have  just  come  back  from   that 
wonderful  place. 
And  kist  hands  with  the  Queen 
down  there  ; 
Bat  I  cannot  describe  Her  Majesty's 
face. 
It  has  filled  me  so  with  despair. 

The  place  is  not  what  yon  might 
suppose : 
It  is  worse  in  some  respects. 
But  all  that  I  heard  there,  I  must 
not  disclose, 
For  the  lady  that  told  me  objects. 

The  laws  of  the  land  are  not  Salique, 

But  the  King  never  dies,  of  course  ; 

The  new  Queen  is  young,  and  pretty, 

and  chiCy 

There  are  women,  I  think,  that  are 

worso. 


But  however  that  be,  one  thing  I 
know, 
And  this  I  am  free  to  tell  ; 
The  Devil,  my  friends,  is  a  woman, 
just  now  ; 
'Tis  ?,  woman  that  reigns  in  Hell. 


COUNT  RINAJ.DO  RINALDI. 

'Tis  a  dark-purple,  moonlighted  mid- 
night : 
There  is  maii^ic  about  on  the  air. 
Ajid,  where,  through  the  water,  fall 
flashing 
The  oars  of  each  gay  gondolier. 
The  lamp-lighted  ripples  are  dashing. 

In  the  musical  moonlighted  air, 
To  the  music,  in  merriment  ;  wash- 
ing, 
And  splashing,  the  black  marble 
stair 
That  leads  to  the  last  garden-terrace, 

Where  many  a  gay  cavalier 
And  many  a  lady  yet  loiter. 
Round  the  Palace  in  festival  there. 

'Tis  a  terrace  all  paven  mosaic, — 

Black  marble,  and  green  malachite; 

Round  an  ancient  Venetian  Palace, 

Where  the  windows  with  lampions 

are  bright. 

'Tis  an  evening  of  gala  and  festival. 

Music,  and  passion,  and  light. 
There  is   love  In  the  nightingales' 
throats. 
That  sing  in  the  garden  so  well  : 
There  is  love  in  the  face  of  the  moon  : 
There  is  love  in  the  warm  languid 

glances 
Of    the   dancers  adown  the  dim 
dances  : 
There  is  love  in  the  low  languid  notes 

That  rise  into  rapture,  and  swell, 
From  viol,  and  flute,  and  bassoon. 

The  tree  that  bends  down  o'er  tht 
water 
So  black,  is  a  black  cypress-tree. 
And   the    statue,    there,   under  the 
terrace, 
Mnemoeyne's  statue  must  be. 


20S 


THE  WANDERER. 


There  comes  a  black  gondola  slowly 
To  the  Palace  in  festival  there  : 

And  the  Count  Rinaldo  Riualdi 
Hasmoiited  the  black  marble  stair. 

There  was  nothing  but  darkness,  and 
midnight, 
And  tempest,  and  storm,  in  the 
breast 
Of  the  Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi, 
As  his  foot  o'er  the  black  marble 
prest : — 
The  glimmering  black  marble  stair 
Where  the  weed  in  the  green  ooze 
is  clinging. 
That  leads  to  the  garden  so  fair, 
Where  the  nightingales  softly  are 

singing,— 
Where  the  minstrels  new  music 
are  stringing, 
And  the  dancers  for  dancing  prepare. 

There  rustles  a  robe  of  white  satin  : 
There's  a  footstep  falls  light  by  the 
stair  : 
There  rustles  a  robe  of  white  satin  : 
There's  a  gleaming  of  soft  golden 
hair  : 
And  the  Lady  Irene  Ricasoli 
Stands     near     the     cypress -tree 

there, — 
Near  Mnemosyne's  statue  so  fair, — 
The  Lady  Irene  Ricasoli, 
With  the  light  in  iier  long  golden 
hair. 

And  the  nightingales  softly  are  sing 
ing  I  air; 

In  the  mellow  and  moonlighted 
And  the  minstrels   their  viols  are 
stringing  ; 
And  the  dancers  for  dancing  pre- 
pare. 

*'  Siora,"  the  Count  said  unto  her, 
' '  The  shafts  of  ill-fortune  pursue 
me  ; 
The  old  grief  grows  newer  and  newer, 
The  old  pangs  are  never  at  rest ; 
And  the  foes  that  have  sworn  to 

undo  me 
Have  left    me    no   peace   in   my 
breast. 


They  have  slandered,  and  wronged, 
and  maligned  me  : 
Though  they  broke  not  my  sword 
in  my  hand. 
They  have  broken  my  heart  in  my 
bosom  [manned. 

And    sorrow  my  youth    has   uu- 
But  I  love  you,  Irene,  Irene, 
With  such  love  as  the  wretched 
alone 
Can  feel  from  the  desert  within  them 
Which    only  the  wretched    have 
known  ! 
And  the  heart  of  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 
Dreads,  Lady,  no  frown  but  your 
own. 
To  others  be  all  that  you  are,  love — 

A  lady  more  lovely  than  most ; 
To  me — be  a  fountain,  a  star,  love. 

That  lights  to  his  haven  the  lo?t ; 
A  shrine  that  with  tender  devotion, 
The  mariner  kneeling,  doth  deck 
With  the  dank  weeds  yet  dripping 
from  ocean. 
And  the  last  jewel  saved  from  the 
wreck. 

"  None  heeds  us,  beloved  Irene  ! 

None  will  mark  if  we  linger  or  fly. 
Amid  all  the  mad  masks  in  yon  revel, 

There  is  not  an  ear  or  an  eye, — 
Not    one, — that    will    gaze    or  will 
listen  ; 

And,  save  the  small  star  in  the  sky 
Which,  to   light  us,  so   softly  doth 
glisten. 

There  is  none  will  pursue  us,  Irene. 

O  love  me,  O  save  me,  I  die  ! 
I  am  thine,  O  be  mine,  O  belove'd  ! 

"  Fly  with  me,  Irene,  Irene  ! 

The  moon  drops  :  the  morning  is 
near, 
My  gondola  waits  by  the  garden 

And  fleet  is  my  own  gondolier  ! " 
What  the  Lady  Irene  Ricasoli, 

By  Mnemosyne's  statue  in  stone. 
Where  she  leaned,  'neath  the  black 
cypress-tree, 

To  the  Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 

Replied  then,  it  never  was  known. 
And  known,  now,  it  never  will  be. 


m  ITALY. 


^69 


But  the  moon  hath  been  melted  in 
morning  : 
And  the  lamps  in  the  windows  are 
dead  : 
And  the  gay  cavaliers  from  the  ter- 
race, 
And  the  ladies  they  laughed  with, 
are  fled  ; 
And  the  music  is  husht  in  the  viols  : 
And  the  minstrels,  and  dancers, 
are  gone  ; 
And  the  nightingales    now  in  the 
garden,  [one  : 

From  singing  have  ceased,  one  by 
But  the  Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 
Still  stands,  where  he  last  stood, 
alone, 
'Neath  the  black  cypress-tree,  near 

the  water. 
By  Mnemosyne's  statue  in  stone. 

O'er  his  spirit  was  silence  and  mid- 
night. 
In  his  breast  was  the  calm  of  de- 
spair. 
He  took,  with  a  smile,  from  a  casket 

A  single  soft  curl  of  gold  hair, — 
A  wavy  warm  curl  of  gold  hair, 
And  into   the  black-bosomed  water 
He  flung  it  atljwart  the  black  stair. 
The  skies  they  were  changing  above 
him  ; 
The  dawn,  it  came  cold  on  the  air; 
He  drew  from  his  bosom  a  kerchief — 
"Would,"  he  sighed,  ''that  her 

face  was  less  fair  ! 
That  her  face  was  less  hopelessly 
fair." 
And  folding  the  kerchief,  he  covered 
The  eyes  of  Mnemosyne  there. 

THE   LAST   MESSAGE. 

Fling  the  lattice  open, 

And  the  music  plain  you'll  hear  ; 
Lean  out  of  the  window. 

And  you'll  see  the  lamplight  clear. 

There,  you  see  the  palace 
Wliere  the  bridal  ie  to-night. 

Ton  may  shut  the  window. 
Come  here,  to  tlxe  iigliu 
14 


Take  this  portrait  with  you, 
Look  well  before  you  go. 

She  can  scarce  be  altered 
Since  a  year  a^o. 

Women's  hearts  change  lightly, 
(Truth  both  trite  and  olden  !) 

But  blue  eyes  remain  blue  ; 
Golden  hair  stays  golden. 

Once  I  knew  two  sisters  : 

One  was  dark  and  grave 
As  the  tomb  ;  one  radiant 

And  changeful  as  the  wave, 

Now  away,  friend,  quickly  ! 

Mix  among  the  masks  : 
Say  you  are  the  bride's  friend, 

If  the  bridegroom  asks. 

If  the  bride  have  dark  hair, 

And  an  olive  brow, 
Give  her  this  gold  bracelet  ; — 

Come  and  let  me  know. 

If  the  bride  have  bright  hair, 

And  a  brow  of  snow. 
In  the  greaL  canal  there 

Quick  the  portrait  throw  : 

And  you'll  merely  give  her 

This  poor  faded  flower. 
Thanks  !  now  leave  your  stylet 

With  me  for  an  hour. 

You're  my  friend  :  whatever 

I  ask  you  now  to  do, 
If  the  case  were  altered, 

I  v/ould  do  for  you. 

And  you'll  promise  me,  my  mother 
Shall  never  miss  her  son, 

If  anything  should  happen 
Before  the  night  is  done. 


VENICE. 

The  sylphs  and  ondinea. 

And  the  sea-kings  a,nd  queens. 
Long  ago,  long  ago,  on  the  waves 
built  a  city, 

As  lovely  as  seems 

To  some  bard,  in  his  dreams, 
The  8oul  of  his  latest  love-ditty. 


210 


THE  WAA^DERER. 


Long  ago,  long  ago, — ah  I  that  was 
long  ago 
Thick  as  gems  on  the  chalices 

Kings  keep  for  treasure, 
Were  the  temples  and  palaces 
In  this  city  of  pleasure  ; 
And  the  night  broke  out  shining 
With  lamps  and  with  festival, 
O'er    the    squares,    o'er    the 
streets  *; 
And  the  soft  sea  went,  pining 
With  love,  through  the  musical, 
Musical  bridges,  and  marble 
retreats 
Of  this  city  of  wonder,  where  dwelt 

the  ondines, 
Long  ago,  and  the  sylphs,  and  the 
sea-kings  and  queens, 
— Ah  !  that  was  long  ago  I 
But  the  sylphs  and  ondines, 
And  the  sea-kings  and  queens 

Are  fled  imder  the  waves  : 
And  1  glide,  and  I  glide 
Up  the  glimmering  tide 

Through  a  city  of  graves. 
Here  will  I  bury  my  heart, 
Wrapt  in  the  dream  it  dream- 
ed ; 
One  grave  more  to  the  many  I 
One  grave  as  silent  as  any  ; 
Sculptured  about  with  art, — 
For  a  palace  this  tomb  once 
seemed. 
Light  lips  have  laughed  there, 
Bright  eyes  have  beamed. 
Revel  and  dance  ; 
Lady  and  lover  I 
Pleasure  hath  quaffed  there  : 
Beauty  hath  gleamed, 
I>ove  wooed  Romance. 
Now  all  is  over  I 
And  I  glide,  and  I  glide 
Up  the  glimmering  tide, 
'Mid  forma  silently  passing,  as  silent 
as  any, 
Here,  'mid  the  wavea, 
In  this  city  of  graves, 
To  bury  my  heart — one  grave  more 
to  the  many  I 


ON  THE  SEA- 

Come  !  breathe  thou  soft,  or  blowit 

thou  bold. 
Thy  coming  be  it  kind  or  cold. 
Thou  soul   of    the  heedless    ocean 

wind  ; — 
Little  I  rede  and  little  I  reck. 
Though  the  mast  be  snapt  on  the 

mizzen-deck,  ! 

So  thou  blow  her  last  kiss  from  my  r 

neck. 
And  her  memory  from  my  mind  \       i 

Comrades  around  the  mast. 

The  welkin  is  o'ercasfc  i 

One  watch  is  wellnigh  past —  ,. 

Out  of  sight  of  shore  at  last  I  i 

Fade  fast,  thou  falling  shore. 
With  that  fair  false  face  of  yore,         ;' 
And  the  love,  and  the  life,  now  o'erl  !f 
What  she  sought,  that  let  her  have—  ' 
The  praise  of  traitor  and  knave,  ' 

The  simper  of  coward  and  slave. 
And    the    worm    that    clings    and 

stings— 
The  knowledge  of  nobler  things. 

But  here  shall  the  mighty  sea 
Make  moan  with  my  heart  in  me, 
And  her  name  be  torn 
By  the  winds  in  scorn, 
In  whose  march  we  are  moving  free. 
I  am  fre«,  I  am  free,  I  am  free  ! 
Hark  !  how  tbe  wild  waves  roar  ! 
Hark  I  how  the  wild  winds  rave  I 
Courage,  true  hearts  and  brave. 
Whom  Fate  can  afflict  no  more  I 

Comrades,  the  night  is  long. 

I  will  sing  you  an  ancient  song 

Of  a  tale  that  was  told 

In  the  days  of  old, 

Of  a  Baron  blithe  and  strong, — 

High  heart  and  bosom  bold. 

To  strive  for  the  right  with  wrong  1 

"Who  left  his  castled  home, 

Wlien  the  Cross  was  raised  in  RomOi 

And  swore  on  his  sword 

To  tight  for  the  Lord, 

And  the  banners  of  Christendom. 

To  die  or  to  overcome  i 


12^  ITALY. 


2It 


"  In  hauberk  of  mail,  and  helmet  of 

steel, 
And  armor  of  proof  from  head  to 

heel, 
O.  M'hat  is  the  womid  which  he  shall 

feel? 
And  where  the  foe  that  shall  make 

him  reel  ? 
True  knight  on  whose  crest  the  cross 

doth  shine  ! 
They  buckled  his  harness,  brought 

him  his  steed — 
A  stallion  black  of  the  land's  best 

breed — 
Belted  his  spurs,  and  bade  him  God- 
speed 
'Mid  the  Paynim  in  Palestine. 
But  the  wife  that  he  loved,  when  she 

poured  him  up 
A  last  deep  health  in  her  golden  cup, 
Put  poison  into  the  wine. 

*'  So  he  rode  till  the  land  he  loved 
grew  dim. 

And  that  poison  began  to  work  in 
him, 

A  true  knight  chanting  his  Chris- 
tian hymn. 

With  the  cross  on  his  gallant  crest. 

Eastward,  aye,  from  the  waning 
west, 

Toward  the  land  where  the  bones  of 
the  Saviour  rest, 

And  the  Battle  of  God  is  to  win  : 

With  his  yomig  wife's  picture  upon 
his  breast, 

And  her  poisoned  wine  within. 

"  Alas  !  poor  knight,  poor  knight  ! 
He  Carries  the  foe  he  cannoL  fight 
In  his  own  true  breast  shut  up. 
He  shall  die  or  ever  he  fight  for  the 

Lord, 
And  his  heart  be  broken  before  his 

sword. 
He  hath  pledged  his  life 


To  a  faithless  wife, 

In  the  wine  of  a  poisoned  cup  X " 

Comrade,  thy  hand  in  mine  \ 
Pledge  me  in  our  last  wine. 
While  all  is  dark  on  the  brine. 
My  friend.  I  reck  not  now 
If  the  wild  night-wind  should  blow 
Our  bark  beyond  the  poles  : — 
To  drift  through  fire  or  snow, 
Out  of  reach  of  all  we  know — 
Cold  heart,  and  narrow  brow, 
Smooth  faces,  sordid  souls  ! 
Lost,  like  some  pale  crew 
From  Ophir,  in  golden  galleys, 
On  a  witch's  island  !  who 
Wander  the  tamarisk  alleys. 
Where  the  heaven  is  blue. 
And  the  ocean  too, 
That  murmurs  among  the  valleys. 
"  Perisht  with  all  on  board  !  " 
So  runs  the  vagrant  fame — 
Thy  wife  weds  another  lord, 
My  children  forget  my  name. 
While  we  count  new  stars  by  night. 
Each  wanders  out  of  sight 
Till   the  beard  on  his  chin  grows 

white 
And   scant  grow  the   curls   on   his 

head. 
One  paces  the  placid  hours 
In  dim  enchanted  bowers, 
By  a  soft-eyed  Panther  led 
To  a  magical  milk-white  bed 
Of  deep,  pale  poison-flowers. 
With  rmned  gods  one  dwells. 
In  caverns  among  the  fells. 
Where,    with    desolate    arms    oufe- 

spread, 
A  single  tree  stands  dead, 
Smitten  by  savage  spells, 
And  striking  a  silent  dread 
From  its  black  and  blighted  head 
Through     the     horrible,     hopeless. 

sultry  dells 
Of  Elephanta,  the  Red. 


-212 


THE  WANDERER 


BOOK  11.  IN  FRANCE. 


"PRENSUS  IN  ^G^O." 

^Tis  toil  must  help  us  to  forget. 
In  strife,  they  say,  grief  finds  re- 
pose. 
Well,   there's  the  game  !    I  throw 
the  stakes  : — 
A  life  of  war,  a  world  of  foes, 
A    heart    that    triumphs    while    it 
breaks. 
Some  day  I  too,  perchance,  may 

lose 
This  shade  which  memory  o'er  me 

throws, 
And  laugh  as  others  laugh,  (who 
knows  ? ) 
But  ah,  'twill  not  he  yet  ! 

How  many  years  since  she  and  I 
Walked  that  old  terrace,  hand-in- 
liand  ! 
Just  one  star  in  the  rosy  sky. 

And  silence  on  the  summer  lamt. 
And  she  ?  .  .  . 

I  think  I  hear  her  sing 
That  song, — the  last  of    all  our 
songs. 
How  all  comes  back  ! — thing  after 
thing, 
The  old  life  o'er  me  throngs  ! 
Put  I  must  to  the  palace  go  ; 

The  ambassador's  to-morrow  : 
Here's   little    time    for    thought,   I 
know. 
And  little  more  for  sorrow. 
Already  in  the  x)orte-cochere 
The  carriage  sounds  .  .  .  my  hat 
and  gloves  ! 
I  hear  my  friend's  foot  on  the  stair, — 

How  joyously  it  moves  ! 
He  must  have  done  some  wicked 
thing 
To  make  him  tread  so  light  : 
Or  is  it  only  that  the  king 

Admired  his  wife  last  niirlit  ? 
We  talk  of  nations  by  the  way, 


And  praise  the  Nuncio's  manners, 
And  end  with  something  tine  to  say      [' 

About  the  "  aUied  banners." 
'^^is  well  to  mix  with  all  conditions 

Of  men  in  every  station  : 
I  sup  to-morrow  with  musicians,  '} 

Upon  the  invitation 
Of  my  clever  friend,  the  journalist,       [ 

Who  writes  the  reading  plays  j 

Whicli  no  one  reads  ;  a  socialist  i 

Most  social  in  his  ways.  j 

But  I  am  sick  of  all  the  din  ^ 

That's  made  in  praising  Verdi, 
Wlio  only  know  a  violin 

Is  not  a  hurdy-gurdy.  ; 

Here  oft,  while  on  a  nerveless  hand      \ 

An  aching  brow  reclining. 
Through  this  tall  window  where  I 

stand,  } 

I  see  the  great  town  shining. 
Hard    by,    the    restless    Boulevart 
roars, 
Heard  all  the  night  through,  even 
in  dreaming  : 
While  from  its  hundred  open  doors 
The  many-headed  Life  is  stream- 
ing, [fares 
Upon  the  world's   wide  thorough-     : 

My  lot  is  cast.     So  be  it ! 
Each  on  his  back  his  burthen  bears, 
And    feels,   though    he  may  not 
see  it. 
My  life  is  not  more  hard  than  theirs 

Who  toil  on  either  side  : 
They  cry  for  quiet  in  their  prayers, 
And  it  is  still  denied. 

Bat  sometimes,  when  I  stand  alone, 

Life  pauses, — now  and  then  : 
And  in  the  distance  dies  the  moan 

Of  miserable  men. 
As  in  a  dream  (how  strange  !)  I  seem 

To  be  lapsing,  slowly,  slowly, 
From    noise   and  strife,  to  a  stiliei 
life, 

Where  all  is  husht  and  holy. 


IN  FRANCE. 


213 


Ah,  love  !  our  way's  in  a  stranger 
land. 
We  may  not  rest  together. 
For  an  Angel  takes  me  by  the  hand. 
And    leads    me    .    .    .    whither  ? 
whither  ? 

A  L'ENTRESOL. 

OxE  circle  of  all  its  golden  hours 
The  flitting   hand  of    the  Time- 
piece there, 
In  its   close  white  bower  of  china 
flowers, 
Hath  rounded  unaware  : 

While  the  firelight,  flung  from  the 
flickering  wall 
On  the  large  and  limpid  mirror  be- 
hind, 
Hath  reddened  and  darkened  down 
o'er  all. 
As  the  fire  itself  declined. 

Something  of  pleasm*e  and  something 
of  pain 
There  lived  in  that  sinking  light. 
What  is  it  ? 
Faces  I  never  shall  look  at  again, 
In  places  you  never  will  visit. 

Revealed  themselves  in  each  falter- 
ing ember, 
While,   under  a  palely  wavering 
flame, 
Half  of  the  years  life  aches  to  re- 
member 
Reappeared,    and    died    as    they 
came. 

To  its  dark  Forever  an  hour  hath 
gone 
Since  either  you  or  I  have  spoken : 
Each  of  us  might  have  been  sitting 
alone 
In  a  silence  so  unbroken. 

I  never  shall  know  what  made  me 

look  up 
(In  this  cushioned  chair  so  soft 

and  deep. 
By  the  table  where,  over  the  empty 

cup,  I  was  leaning,  half  asleep) 


To  catch  a  gleam  on  the  picture  up 
there 
Of    the    saint    in  the  wilderness 
under  the  oak  ; 
And  a  light  on  the  brow  of  the  bronze 
Voltaire, 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  cynical  joke. 

To  mark,  in  each  violet  velvet  fold 
Of  the  cm-tains  that  fall  'twixt 
room  and  room, 

The  dip  and  dance  of  the  manifold 
Shadows  of  rosy  gloom. 

O'er    the    Rembrandt    there  —  the 
Caracci  here — 
Flutter    warmly    the    ruddy    and 
wavering  hues  ; 
And  St.  Anthony  over  his  book  has 
a  leer 
At  the    little  French  beauty    by 
Greuze. 

There,— the  Leda,  weighed  over  hei 
white  swan's  back. 
By  the  weight  of  her  passionate 
kiss,  ere  it  falls  ; 
O'er  the    ebony  cabinet,   glittering 
black 
Through  its  ivory  cups  and  balls  : 

Your  scissors  and  thimble,  and  work 
laid  away. 
With  its  silks,  in  the  scented  rose- 
wood box  ; 
The  journals,  that  tell  truth  every 
day, 
And  that  novel  of  Paul  de  Kock's: 

The  flowers  in  the  vase,  with  their 
bells  shut  close 
In  a  dream  of  the  far  green  fields 
where  they  grew  ; 
The  cards  of  the  visiting  people  and 
shows 
In  that  bowl  with  the  sea-green 
hue. 

Your  shawl,  with  a  queenly  droop  of 
its  own. 
Hanging  over  the  arm  of  the  crim- 
son chair ; 


214 


THE  WAATDEKER. 


And,    last, — ^yourself,    as    silent    as 
stone. 
In  a  glow  of  the  fireliglit  there  ! 

I  thought  you  were  reading  all  this 
time. 
And  was  it  some  wonderful  page 
of  your  book 
Telling  of  love,  with  its  glory  and 
crime, 
That  has  left  you  that  sorrowful 
look? 

For  a  tear  from  those  dark,  deep, 
humid  orbs 
'Neath  their  lashes,  so  long,  and 
soft,  and  sleek. 
All  the  light  in  your  lustrous  eyes 
absorbs. 
As  it  trembles  over  your  cheek. 

Were  you  thinlcing  how  we,  sitting 
side  by  side. 
Might  be  dreaming  miles  and  miles 
apart  ? 
Or  if  lips  could  meet  over  a  gulf  so 
wide 
As  separates  heart  from  heart  ? 

Ah,  well  !  when  time  is  flown,  how 
it  fled 
It  is  better  neither  to  ask  nor  tell. 
Leave  the   dead   moments  to  bury 
their  dead. 
Let  us  kiss  and  break  the  spell  ! 

Come,  arm  in  arm,  to  the  window 
here  ; 
Draw  by  the  thick  cuilain,  and  see 
how,  to-mght. 
In  the  clear  and  frosty  atmosphere. 
The  lamps  are  burning  bright. 

All  night,  and  forever,  in  yon  great 
town, 
The  heaving  Boulevart  flares  and 
roars  ; 
And  the   streaming  Life  flows  up 
and  down 
From  its  hundi-ed  open  doors. 


It  is  scarcely  so  cold,  but  I  and  you, 
With  never  a  friend  to  find  us  out, 

May  stare  at  the  shops  for  a  moment 
or  two, 
And  wander  awhile  ahout. 

For  when  in  the    crowd  we  have 
taken  our  place, 
( — Just    two    more    lives    to    the 
mighty  street  there  !) 
Knowing  no  single  form  or  face 
Of  the  men  and  women  we  meet 
there, — 

Knowing,  and  known  of,  none  in  the 
whole 
Of  that  crowd  all  round,  but  our 
two  selves  only, 
We  shall  grow  nearer,  soul  to  soul, 
Until  we  feel  less  lonely. 

Here  are  your  bonnet  and  gloves, 
dear.     There, — 
How  stately  you  look  in  that  long 
rich  shawl  ! 
Put  back  your  beautiful  golden  hair, 
That  never  a  curl  may  fall. 

Stand  in  the  firelight ...  so,  ...  as 
you  were, — 
O  my  heart,  how  fearfully  like  her 
slie  seemed  ! 
Hide  me  up  from  my  own  despair, 
And    the    ghost    of    a    dream    I 
dreamed  ! 


TERRA  INCOGNITA. 

How  sweet  it  is  to  sit  beside  her, 

When    the    hour    brings    nought 
that's  better  ! 
All  day  in  my  thouglits  to  hide  her. 

And.  with  fancies  free  from  fetter. 
Half  remember,  half  forget  her. 

Just  to  find  her  out  by  times 

In  my  mind,  among  sweet  fancies 

Laid  away  : 

In  the  fall  of  mournful  rhymes  ; 

In  a  dream  of  distant  climes  ; 
In  the  sights  a  lonely  man  sees 


IN  FRANCE. 


215 


At  tilt  dropping  of  the  day  ; 

Grave  or  gay. 
As  a  maiden  sometimes  locks 
With  old  letters,  whose  contents 
Tears  have  faded, 
In  an  old  worm-eaten  box, 
Some    sweet    packet    of    faint 
scents, 

Silken-hraided  ; 
And  forgets  it : 
Careless,  so  [  hide 

In  my  life  her  love, — 
Fancies  on  each  side, 
Memories  heaped  above  : — 
There  it  lies,  unspied  : 

Nothing  frets  it. 
On  a  sudden,  when 

Deed,  or  word,  or  glance, 
Brings  me  back  a^ain 
To  the  old  romance, 
"With  what  rapture  then, — 
When,  in  its  completeness. 
Once  my  heart  hath  found  i' 
By  each  sense  detected. 
Steals  on  me  the  sweetness 
Of  the  air  around  it, 
Where  it  lies  neglected  I 
Shall  I  break  the  charm  of  this 

In  a  single  minute  ? 
For  some  chance  with  fuller  bliss 

Protfered  in  it  ? 
Secrets  unsealed  by  a  kiss, 

Could  I  win  it  1 
'Tis  so  sweet  to  linger  near  her, 

Idly  so  ! 
Never  reckoning,  while  I  hear  her 

Whispering  low, 
If  each  whisper  will  make  clearer 

Bliss  or  woe  ; 
Never  roused  to  hope  or  fear  her 

Yes  or  No  ! 
Wliat  if,  seeking  something  more 

Than  before, 
All  that's  given  I  displace — 

Calm  and  grace — 
Nothing  ever  can  restore. 
As  of  yore, 
That  old  quiet  face  I 
Quiet  skies  in  quiet  lakes, 
No  wind  wakes. 
All  their  beauty  double  : 


But  a  single  pebble  breaks 
Lake  and  sky  to  trouble  ; 
Then  dissolves  the  foam  it  makes 

In  a  bubble. 
With  the  pebble  in  my  hand. 
Here,  upon  the  brink,  I  stand  ; 
Meanwhile,  standing  on  the  brink. 

Let  me  think  ! 
Not  for  her  sake,  but  for  mine. 
Let  those  eyes  unquestioned  shine, 

Half  divine  : 
Let  no  hand  disturb  the  rare 
Smoothness  of  that  lustrous  hair 

Anywhere  : 
Let  that  white  breast  never  break 
Its  calm  motion — sleep  or  wake — 

For  my  sake. 
Not  for  her  sake,  l>ut  for  mine, 
All  I  might  have,  I  resign. 

Should  I  glow 
To  the  hue — the  fragrance  fine — 
The  mere  first  sight  of  the  wine, 
If  I  drained  the  goblet  low  ? 

Who  can  know  ? 
With  her  beauty  like  the  snow, 
Let  her  go  !    Shall  I  repine 
That  no  idle  breath  of  mine 
Melts  it  ?    No  I    'Tis  better  so.      - 
All  the  same,  as  she  came. 
With  her  beauty  like  the  snow, 
Cold,  unspotted,  let  her  go  I 


A  REMEMBRANCE. 

'TwAs    eve    and    May   when    last, 
through  tears. 
Thine  eyes  sought  mine,  thy  hand 
my  hand. 
The    night    came  down    her  silent 
spheres. 

And  up  the  silent  land. 

In  Eilence,  too,  my  thoughts  were 
furled. 
Like  ring-doves  in  the  dreaming 
grove. 
Who  would  not  lightly  lose  the  world 
To  keep  such  love  ? 


2l0 


THE  WANDERER. 


But  many  Mays,  with  all  tlieir  flow- 
ers, 
Are  faded  since  that  blissful  time — 
The  last  of  all  my  happy  hours 
r  the  golden  climo  I 

By  hands  not  thine  these  wreaths 
were  curled 
That    hide    the    care    my    brows 
above  : 
And  I  have  almost  gained  the  world, 
But  lost  that  love. 

As  though    for  some    serene   dead 
brow. 
These  wreaths  for  me  I  let  them 
twine, 
I  hear  the  voice  of  praise,  and  know 
It  is  not  thine. 

How  many  long  and  lonely  days 

I  strove  with  life  thy  love  to  gain  ! 
I  know  my  work   was  worth    thy 
praise  ; 

But  all  was  vain. 

Vain  Passion's  fire,  vain  Music's  art  ! 
For     who    from    thorns     grape- 
bunches  gathers  ? 
'What  depth  is  in  the  shallow  heart  ? 
What  weight  in  feathers  ? 

As  drops  the  blossom,  ere  the  growth 

Of  fruit,  on  some  autumnal  tree, 
I  drop  from  my  changed  life,   its 
youth 

And  joy  in  thee  : 

And  look  beyond,  and  o'er  thee, — 
right 
To  some  sublimer  end  than  lies 
Within  the  compass  of  tlie  sight 
Of  thy  cold  eyes. 

With  thine  my  soul  hath  ceased  its 
strife. 
Thy  part  is  filled  ;  thy  work  is 
done  ; 
Thy  falsehood  buried  in  my  life. 
And  known  to  none. 


Yet  «till  will  golden  momories  frame 

Thy  broken  image  in  my  heart. 
And  love  for  what  thou  wast  shut 
blame 

From  what  thou  art.    ' 

In  Life's  long  galleries,  haunting- 
eyed. 
Thy  pictured  face  no  change  shall 
show  ; 
Like  some  dead  Queen's  who  lived 
and  died 

An  age  ago  I 

MADAME  LA  MARQUISE. 

The  folds  of  her  wine-dark  violet 
dress 

Glow  over  the  sofa,  fall  on  fall, 
As  she  sits  in  the  air  of  her  loveliness 

With  a  smile  for  each  and  for  all. 

Half  of  her  exquisite  face  in  the 
shade 
Which  o'er  it  the  screen  in  her 
soft  hand  flings  : 
Through  the  gloom  glows  her  hair 
in  its  odorous  braid  : 
In  the  firelight  are  sparkling  her 
rings. 

As  she  leans, — the  slow  smile  half 
shut  up  in  her  eyes 
Beams  the  sleepy,  long,  silk-soft 
lashes  beneath  ; 
Through  her  crimson  lips,  stirred  by 
her  faint  replies. 
Breaks  one  gleam  of  her  pearl- 
white  teeth. 

As  she  leans, — where  your  eye,  by 
her  beauty  subdued. 
Droops — from  imder  warm  fringes 
of  broidery  white 
The    slightest    of    feet — silken-slip- 
pered, protrude. 
For  one  moment,  then  slip  out  of 
sight. 

As  I  bend  o'er  her  bosom,  to  tell  her 
the  news. 
The  faint  scent  of  her  hair,  the 
approach  of  her  cheek, 


IN  FRANCE. 


217 


The  vague  warmth  of  her  breath,  all 
my  senses  suffuse 
With  HEESELF  :  and  I  tremble  to 
speak. 

So  she  sits  in  the  curtained,  luxu- 
rious light 
Of  that  room,  with  its  porcelain, 
and  pictures,  and  flowers. 
When  the  dark  day's  half  done,  and 
the  snow  flutters  white. 
Past    the    windows    in    feathery 
showers. 

All  without  is  so  cold, — 'neath  the 
low  leaden  sky  ! 
Down  the  bald,  empty  street,  like 
a  ghost,  the  gendarme 
Stalks  surly :  a  distant  carriage  hums 
by:— 
All  within    is    so  bright  and   so 
warm  ! 

Here  we  talk  of  the  schemes  and  the 
scandals  of  court, 
How  the  courtesan  pushes  :   the 
charlatan  thrives  : 
We  put  horns  on  the  heads  of  our 
friends,  just  for  sport : 
Put  intrigues  in  the  heads  of  their 
wives. 

Her    warm    hand,    at    parting,    so 
strangely  thrilled  mine. 
That  at  dinner  I  scarcely  remark 
what  they  say, — 
Drop  the  ice  in  my   soup,  spill  the 
salt  in  my  wine, 
Then  go  yawn  at  my  favorite  play. 

But  she  drives  after  noon  : — then's 
the  time  to  behold  her. 
With  her  fair  face  half  hid,  like  a 
ripe  peeping  rose, 
'Neath  that  veil, — o'er  the  velvets 
and  furs  which  enfold  her, 
Leaning  back  with  a  queenly  re- 
pose,— 

As  she  glides  up  the  sunlight !  .  .  . 
You'd  say  she  was  made 
To  loll  back  in  a  carriage,  all  day, 
with  a  smile, 


And  at  dusk,  on  a  sofa,  to  lean  in 
the  shade 
Of  soft  lamps,  and  be  wooed  for  a 
while. 

Could  we  find  out  her  heart  through 
that  velvet  and  lace  ! 
Can  it  beat  without  ruflling  her 
sumptuous  dress  ? 
She  will  show  us  her  shoulder,  her 
bosom,  her  face  ; 
But  what  the  heart's  like^  ^Temust 
guess. 

With  live  women   and   men  to   be 
found  in  the  world — 
( — Live    with   sorrow    and   sin, — 
live  with  pain  and  wiih  pas- 
sion,— ) 
Who  could  live  with  a  doll,  though 
its  locks  should  be  curled. 
And  its  petticoats  trimmed  in  the 
fashion  ? 

'Tis  so  fair  ! .  .  .  would  my  bite,  if  I 
bit  it,  draw  blood  ? 
W  ill  it  cry  if  I  hurt  it  ?  or  scold  if 
I  kiss  ? 
Is  it  made,  with  its  beauty,  of  wax  or 
of  wood  ? 
....  Is  it  worth  while  to  guess  at 
all  this  ? 


THE  NOVEL. 

*'  Here,  I  have  a  book  at  last — 
Sure,"  I  thought,  "to  make  you 
weep  ! " 

But  a  careless  glance  you  cast 
O'er  its  pages,  half  asleep, 

'Tis  a  novel, — a  romance, 

(What  you  will)  of  youth,  of  home, 
And  of  brilliant  days  in  France, 

And  long  moonlit  nights  in  H<  ioec 

'Tis  a  tale  of  tears  and  sins. 
Of  love's  glory  and  its  gloom  ; 

In  a  ball-room  it  begins, 
And  it  ends  beside  a  tomb  \ 


3l8 


THE  WANDERER. 


There's  a  little  heroine  too, 
WTioin  each  chapter  leaves  more 
pale  ; 

And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  blue 
Like  the  violet  of  the  vale  ; 

And  her  hand  is  frail  and  fair  : 
Could  you  but  have  seen  it  lie 

0"er  the  convent  death-bed,  where 
Wept  the  nuns  to  watch  her  die, 

You,  I  think,  had  wept  as  well  ; 

For  the  patience  in  her  face 
(Where  the  dying  sunbeam  fell) 

Had  such  strange  heart-breaking 
grace. 

There's  a  lover,  eager,  bold, 
Knocking  at  the  convent  gate  ; 

But  that  little  hand  grows  cold, 
And  the  lover  knocks  too  late. 

There's  a  high-born  lady  stands 
At  a  golden  mirror,  pale  ; 

Something  makes  her  jewelled  hands 
Tremble,  as  she  hears  the  tale 

Which    her    maid    (while    weaving 
roses 
For    the   ball,   through  her  dark 
hair) 
Mixed  with  other  news,  discloses. 
O.  to-night  she  will  look  fair  ! 

There's  an  old  man,  feeble-handed. 
Counting  gold  .  .  .  "My  son  shall 
wed 

With  the  Princess,  as  I  planned  it. 
Now  that  little  girl  is  dead." 

There's  a  young  man,  sullei),  hushb, 
By  remorse  and  grief  unmanned, 

With  a  withered  primrose  crusht 
In  his  hot  and  feverish  hand. 

There's  a  broken-hearted  v/oman, 
Haggard,  desolate,  and  wild. 

Says  ..."  The  world  hath  grown 
inhuman  1 
Bury  me  beside  my  child." 

And  the  little  god  of  this  world 
Hears     them,     laughing     in    hife 
Bleeve. 


He  is  master  still  in  his  world,  ij 

There's  another,  we  believe.  ; 

Of  this  history  every  part  ' 

You  have  seen,  yet  did  not  heed    , 

it;  1 

For  'tis  written  in  my  heart, 

And  you  have  not  learned  to  read    I 

it.  1 


AUX   ITALIENS. 

I 

At    Paris    it    was,    at    the    Opera  i 

there  ; —  | 

And  she  looked  like  a  queen  in  a  i 

book,  that  night,  ' 

With  the  wreath  of  pearl  in  her  ra-  ' 

ven  hair,  ; 

And  the  brooch  on  her  breast,  so  : 

bright.  ' 

Of  all  the  operas  that  Yerdi  wrote, 
The  best,  to  my  taste,  is  the  Tro- 
vatore  : 
And  Mario  can  soothe  with  a  tenor 
note 
The  souls  in  Purgatory. 

The  moon  on  the  tower  slept  soft  as 
snow  : 
And  who  was  not  thrilled  in  the 
strangest  way. 
As  we  heard  him  sing,  while  the  gns    , 
burned  low, 
"  JVon  ti  scordar  di  me"  '/ 

The  Emperor  there,  in  his  box  of 

state,  I 

Looked  grave,  as  if  he  had  ym 

then  seen 
The  red  flag  wave  from  the  city-gat^^, 
Where  liis  eagles  in  bronze  hii-i 

been. 

The  Empress,  too,  had  a  tear  in  her 
eye.  1 

You'd  have  said  that    her  fancy 
had  gone  back  again, 
For  one  moment,  under  ihe  old  blao 
sky. 
To  the  old  glad  life  in  Spain. 


m  FRANCE. 


219 


Well  I  there  in  our  front-row  box  we 
sat, 
Together,  my  bride-betrothed  and 

^  5 
My  gaze  was  fixed  on  my  opera-hat, 
And  hers  on  the  stage  hard  by. 

And  both  were  silent,  and  both  were 
sad. 
Like  a  queen,  she  leaned  on  her 
full  white  arm, 
With  that  regal,   indolent  air    she 
had  ; 
So  confident  of  her  charm  I 

I  have  not  a  doubt  she  was  thinking 
then 
Of  her  former  lord,  good  soul  that 
he  was  I 
Who  died  the  richest  and   roundest 
of  men. 
The  Marquis  of  Carabas. 

I  hope  that,  to  get  to  the  kingdom  of 
heaven. 
Through  a  needle's  eye  he  had  not 
to  pass. 
I  wish  him  well,  for  the  jointure 
given 
To  my  lady  of  Carabas. 

Meanwhile,  I  was  thinking  of  my 
first  love. 
As  I  had  not  been  thinking  of 
aught  for  years. 
Till   over  my  eyes  there  began  to 
move 
Something  that  felt  like  tears. 

I  thought  of  the  dress  that  she  wore 
last  time. 
When  we  stood,  'neath  the  cypress- 
trees,  together. 
In  that  lost  land,  in  that  soft  clime, 
In  the  crimson  evening  weather  : 

Of  that  muslin  dress  (for  the  eve  was 
hot). 
And  her  warm  white  neck  in  its 
golden  chain, 
And  her  full,  soft  hair,  just  tied  in  a 
knot. 
And  fallmg  loose  again  : 


And  the  jasrain-flower  in  her  fair 
young  breast  : 
(O  the  faint,  sweet  smell  of  that 
jasmin-flower  !) 
And  the  one  bird   singing  alone  to 
his  nest  : 
And  the  one  star  over  the  tower. 

I  thought  of  our  little  quarrels  and 
strife  ; 
And  the  letter  that  brought   me 
back  my  ring. 
And  it  all  seemed  then,  in  the  waste 
of  life, 
Such  a  very  little  thing  ! 

For  I  thought  of  her  grave  below  th- 
hill, 
Wliich    the    sentinel  cypress-tree 
stands  over. 
And  I  thought  ..."  were  she  only 
living  still. 
How  I  could  forgive  her,  and  love 
her  I" 

And  I  swear,  as  I  thought  of  her 
thus,  in  that  hour. 
And  of  how,  after  all,  old  things 
were  best. 
That  I  smelt  the  smell  of  that  jas- 
min-flower, 
Wliich  she  used  to  wear  in  her 
breast. 

It  smelt  so  faint,  and  it  smelt  so 
sweet. 
It  made  me  creep,  and  it  made  mo 
cold  ! 
Like  the  scent  that  steals  from  the 
crumbling  sheet 
Wliere  a  mummy  is  half  unrolled. 

And  1  turned  and  looked.     She  was 

sitting  there 
in.  a  dim  box,  over  the  stage  ;  and 

drest 
In  that  muslin  dress,  with  that  full 

soft  hair, 
And  that  jasmin  in  her  breast  I 

I  was  here  :  and  she  was  there  : 
And  the  glittering  horshoe  cun'ed 
between  : — 


220 


THE  WANDERER. 


From  my  bride-betrothed,  with  her 
raven  hair, 
And    her     sumptuous,     scornful 
mien. 

To  my  early  love,   with  her    eyes 
downcast, 
And  over  her  primrose  face  the 
shade, 
(In  short,  from  the  Future  back  to 
the  Past) 
There  was  but  a  step  to  be  made. 

To  my  early  love  from  my  future 
bride 
One  moment  I  looked.     Then  I 
stole  to  the  door, 
I  traversed  the  passage  ;   and  down 
at  her  side, 
I  was  sitting,  a  moment  more. 

My  thinking  of  lier,  or  the  music's 
strain. 
Or  something  which  never  will  be 
esprest. 
Had  brought  her  back  from  the  grave 
again, 
With  the  jasmin  in  her  breast. 

She  is  not  dead,  and  she  is  not  wed! 
But  she  loves  me  now,  and  she 
loved  me  then  ! 
And  the  very  first  word  that  her 
sweet  lips  said, 
My  heart  grew  youthful  again. 

The  Marchioness  there,  of  Carabas, 
She  is  wealthy,  and  young,  and 
handsome  still. 
And  but  for  her  .  .  .  well,  we'll  let 
that  pass, 
She    may    marry    whomever    she 
will. 
But  I  will  marry  my  own  first  love, 
With  her  primrose  face  :  for  old 
things  are  best, 
And  the  flower  in  her  bosom,  I  prize 
it  above 
The  brooch  in  my  lady's  breast. 

The  world  is  filled  with  folly  and 
sin. 
And  Love  must  cling  where  it  can, 
I  say  : 


For  Beauty  is  easy  enough  to  win  ; 
But  one  isn't  loved  every  day. 

And  I  think,  in  the  lives  of  most  wo-  S| 

men  and  men. 

There's  a  moment  when  all  v/ould 

go  smooth  and  even,  '; 

K  only  the  dead  could  find  out  v/lien  | 

To  come  back,  and  be  forgiven.       , 

But  O  the    smell  of  that    jasmin- 
flower  ! 
And  O  that  music  !  and  O  the  way  f 
That  voice  rang  out  from  the  donjon  | 
tower  I 

Non  ti  scordar  di  me,  , 

Non  ti  scordar  di  me  /  ' 


PEOGRESS. 

When  Liberty  lives  loud  on  every 

lip, 
But  Freedom  moans. 
Trampled  by  Nations  whose  faint 
foot-falls  slip 
Round  bloody  thrones  ; 
When,  here  and  there,  in  dimgeon 
and  in  thrall. 
Or  exile  pale. 
Like  torcheK*dying  at  a  funeral. 

Brave  natures  fail : 
When  Truth,  the  armed  archangel, 
stretches  wide 
God  tromp  in  vain. 
And  the  world,  drowsing,  turns  up- 
on its  side 
To  drowse  again  ; 
O  Man,  whose  course  hath  called  it 
self  sublime 
Since  it  began. 
What  art  thou  in  such  dying  age  of 
time, 
As  man  to  man  ? 

When  Love's  last  wrong  hath  been 
forgotten  coldly, 
As  First  Love's  face  : 
And,  like  a  rat  that  comes  to  wanton 
boldly 
In  some  lone  place, 


IN  FRANCE. 


22! 


Once  festal, — in  tlie  realm  cf  light 
and  laughter 
Grim  Doubt  appears  ; 
Wliilst     weird     suggestions     from 
Death's  vague  Hereafter, 
O'er  ruined  years, 
Creep,  dark  and  darker,  with  new 
dread  to  mutter 
Through  Life's  long  shade, 
Yet  make  no  more  in  the  chill  breast 
the  flutter 
Which  once  they  made  : 
Whether  it  be, — that  all  doth  at  the 
grave 
Eound  to  its  term. 
That  nothing  lives  in  that  last  dark- 
ness, save 
The  little  worm. 
Or  whether  the  tired  spirit  prolong 
its  course 
Through  realms  unseen, — 
Secure,  that  unknown  world  cannot 
be  worse 
'    Than  this  hath  been  ; 
Then  when  through  Thought's  gold 
chain,  so  frail  and  slender, 
Xo  link  will  meet  ; 
When    all    the    broken    harps    of 
Language  render 
No  somid  that's  sweet  : 
When,   like    torn  books,   sad    days 
weigh  down  each  other 
I'  the  dusty  shelf  ; 
O  Man,  what  art  thou,  O  my  friend, 
my  brother. 
Even  to  thyself  ? 


THE  PORTRAIT, 

MiDinoHT  past !    Not  a  sound  of 
aught 
Through  the  silent  house,  but  the 
wind  at  his  prayers. 
I  sat  by  the  dying  fire,  and  thought 
Of  the  dear  dead  woman  up  stairs. 

A  night  of  tears  !  for  the  gusty  rain 
Had  ceased,  but  the  eaves  were 
dripping  yet  ; 


And    the    moon    looked    forth,    as 
though  in  pain. 
With  her  face  all  white  and  wet  : 

Nobody  with  me,  mj  watch  to  keep 
But  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  tlie 
man  I  love  : 

And  grief  had  sent  him  fast  to  sleep 
In  the  chamber  up  above. 

Nobody  else,  in  the  country  place 

All  round,  that  knew  of  my  loss 

beside, 

But  the  good  yoimg  Priest  with  the 

Raphael-face,  [died. 

Who    confessed  her    when    she 

That  good  young  Priest  is  of  gentle 
nerve, 
And  my  grief  had  moved  him  be- 
yond control  ; 
For  his  lip  gi-ew  white,  as  I  could 
observe. 
When  he  speeded  her  parting  souL 

I  sat  by  the  dreary  hearth  alone  : 
I  thought  of  the  pleasant  days  of 
yore  : 

I  said  "  the  staff  of  my  life  is  gone: 
The  woman  I  loved  is  no  more. 

"  On  lier  cold,  dead  bosom  my  por- 
trait lies, 
Which  next  to  her  heart  she  used 
to  wear — 
Haunting  it  o'er  with  her   tender 
eyes 
When  my  own  face  was  not  there. 

*'  It  is  set  all  round  \sith  rubies  red, 
And  pearls  which  a  Peri  might 
have  kept. 
For  each  ruby  there,  my  heart  hath 
bled  : 
For    each   pearl,  my    eyes   have 
wept." 

And  I  said — "  the  thing  is  precious 
to  me  : 
They  will  bury  her  soon  in  the 
churchyard  clay  ; 
It  lies  on  her  heart,  and  lost  must 
be. 
If  I  do  not  take  it  away." 


222 


THE  WANDERER, 


I    lighted  my  lamp    at  the    dying 
,.      .  flame, 

And    'cr^jpt    up    the    stairs  that 
creaked  for  fright, 
Till  into  the  chamber  of  death  I 
came, 
Where  she  lay  all  in  white. 

Th(  moon  shone  over  her  winding- 
sheet. 
There,  stark  slielay  on  her  carven 
bed: 
Seven  burning  tapers  about  her  feet, 
And  seven  about  her  head. 

As   I   stretched  my  hand,  I  held  my 
breath  ; 
I  turned  as   I  drew  the  curtains 
apart : 
I    dared  not  look  on  the  face  of 
death  : 
I  knew  where  to  find  her  heart, 

I  thought,  at  first,  as  my  touch  fell 
there. 
It  had  warmed  that  heart  to  life, 
with  love  ; 
For  the  thing  I  touched  was  warm, 
[  swear. 
And  I  could  feel  it  move. 

Twas  the  hand  of  a  man,  that  was 
moving  slow 
O'er  the  heart  of  the  dead, — from 
the  other  side  ; 
And  at  once  the  sweat  broke   over 
my  brovr, 
"  Who  is  robbing  the  corpse  ?  "  I 
cried. 

Opposite  me  by  the  tapers'  hght, 
The  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man 
i  loved, 
Stood  over  the   corpse    and  all  as 
white. 
And  neither  of  us  moved. 

"  What  do  you  here,  my  friend  ?  " 
.  .  .  The  man 
Looked  first  at  me,   and  then  at 
the  dead. 
"  There    is    a    portrait    here,"    he 
began  ; 
•■  Thtipu  12.     It  is  mine,'*  I  Bald, 


Said  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  *'  your? L 

no  doubt,  ' 

The  portrait  was,  till  a  month  age! 

When  this  sufit'ering  angel  took  tha' 

out, 

And  placed  mine  there,  I  know.''| 

*'  This  woman,  she  loved  me  well,  j 

said  I.  ' 

"  A  month  ago,"  said  my  frien|. 

to  me  ;  | 

"  And  in  your  throat,"  I  groaned 

"you  lie  ! " 

He  answered  .  .  .  "let  us  see."   \ 

''  Enough  !"  I  returned,    "let  th|^ 

dead  decide  : 

And    whose    soever  the  portrai.j' 

prove,  I 

His  shall  it  be,  when  the  cause  i,, 

tried,  I 

Where    Death    is    arraigned    b'| 

Love."  'i 

We  found  the  i)ortrait  there, ^in  itl- 

place  :  *         ' 

We  opened  it,  by  the  tapers'  shinet 

The  gems  were  all  unchanged  :  thl^ 

face  I* 

Was — iicither  his  nor  mine. 

"  One  nail  drives  out  another,   a< 

least  !  "„ 

The  face  of  the  portrait  there,"  • 

cried, 

"  Is  our  friend's,  the  Raphael-faced 

young  Priest,  | 

Who     confessed  her    when    sh^ 

diod." 

The  setting  is  all  of  rubies  red. 
And   pearls  which  a  Peri  mighj; 
have  kept. 
For  each  ruby  there  my  heart  hatlt 
bled  : 
For  each  pearl  my  eyes  have  weptii 


ASTARTE. 

When  the  latest  strife  is  lost,  andalf 

is  i]o7it'  witli, 
Ere  we  slumber  in  the   spLi'it  ant' 
the  braiji, 


IN  FRANCE. 


We  drowse  back,  in  dreams,  to  days 
that  life  be;:run  witli. 
And  their  tender  light  returns  to 
us  again. 

[  have  cast  away  the  tangle  and  the 
tormeiit 
Of  the  cords  that  bound  my  life  up 
in  a  mesh  : 
And  the  pulse  begins  to  throb   that 
long  lay  dormant 
'Neath    their  pressure  ;   and  the 
old  wounds  bleed  afresh. 

I  am  touched  again  with  shades  of 
early  sadness, 
Like    the    summer-cloud's    light 
shadow  in  my  hair  : 
I  am  thrilled   again  with  breaths  of 
boyish  gladness, 
Like  the  scent  of  some  last  prim- 
rose on  the  air. 

And  again  she  comes,  with  all  her 
silent  graces 
The  lost  woman  of  my  youth,  yet 
unpossest  : 
And  her  cold  face    so    unliko  the 
other  faces 
Of  the  women  whose  dead  lips  I 
since  have  prest. 

The  motion  and  the  fragrance  of  her 
garments 
Seem   about  me,  all  the  day  long, 
in  the  room  : 
And  her  face,  with  its  bewildering 
old  endearments 
Comes     at    night    between     the 
curtains,  in  the  gloom. 

When  vain  dreams  are  stirred  with 
sighing,  near  the  morning, 
To  my  own  her  phantom  lips  I 
feel  approach  : 
And  her  smile,  at  eve,  breaks  o'er 
me  without  warning 
From  his    speechless,   pale,   per- 
petual reproach. 

When  Life's  dawning  glimmer  yet 
had  all  the  tint  there 
Of  t/ie  orient,  in  the  ficdhnesa  of 
tlie  gratis, 


(Ah 


what 
trodden  o 
Did  her  soft,  her 
fall,  and  pass. 


since  then.  h9.ve 
_e^print,there.l]-;:r: 


They  fell  lightly,  as   the  dew  falls 
'mid  ungathered 
Meadow  -  flowers  ;     and      light)-, 
lingered  with  the  dew. 
But  the  dew  is  gone,  the  grass  it 
dried  and  withered. 
And  the  traces    of    those    steps 
have  faded  too. 


Other  footsteps  fall  about  me, — faint, 
uncertain. 
In  the  shadow  of  the  world,  as  it 
recedes  : 
Other  forms  peer  through  the  half- 
uplifted  curtain 
Of  that  mystery  which  hangs  be- 
hind the  creeds. 


What  is  gone,  is  gone  forever.    And 
new  fashions 
May  replace  old  forms  which  noth- 
ing can  restore  : 
But  I   turn  from  sighing  back  de- 
parted passions 
With  that  pining  at  the  bosom  as 
of  yore. 

I  remember  to  have  murmured, morn 
and  even, 
'*  Though  the  Earth  dispart  these 
Earthlies,  face  from  face, 
•Yet  the  Heavenlies  shall  sm-ely  join 
in  Heaven, 
For  the  spirit  hath  no  bonds  in 
time  or  space. 

''Where  it  listeth.  there  it  bloweth  ; 
all  existence 
Is    its    region  ;    and    it  houseth. 
where  it  will. 
I  shall  feel  her  through  immeasur- 
able distance, 
And  grow  nearer  and  bo  gathered 
to  her  stilL 


a24 


THE  WANDEREn. 


"  If  I  fail  to  find  her  out  by  her  gold 
tresses, 
Brows,  and  breast,  and  lips,  and 
language  of  sweet  strains, 
I  shall  know  her  by  the  traces   of 
dead  kisses, 
And  that  portion  of  myself  which 
she  retains." 

But  my  being  is  confused  with  new 
experience, 
And  changed  to  something  other 
than  it  was  \ 
And  the  Future  with  the  Past  is  set 
at  variance  ; 
And  Life  falters  with  the  burthens 
which  it  has. 

Earth's  old  sins  press  fast  behind  me, 
weakly  wailing  : 
Faint  before  me  fleets  the  good  I 
have  not  done  : 
And  my  search  for  her  may  still  be 
unavailing 
'Mid  the  spirits  that  are  passed  be- 
yond the  sun. 


AT  HOME  DUEIXG  THE  BALL. 

'Tis  hard  upon  the  dawn,  and  yet 
She  comes  not  from  the  Ball. 

Hie  night  is  cold,  and  bleak,  and 
wet. 
And  the  snow  lies  over  all. 

I  praised  her  with  her    diamonds 
on  : — 
And,  as  she  went,  she  smiled. 
Aud  yet  I  sighed,  when  she  was 
gone, 
Above  our  sleeping  child. 

And  all  night  long,  as  soft  and  slow 

As  falls  the  falling  rain. 
The  thoughts  of  days  gone  long  ago 

Have  filled  my  heart  again. 

Once  more  I  hear  the  Rhine  rush 
down, 

(I  hear  it  in  my  mind  !) 
Once  more,  about  the  sleeping  town, 

The  leimps  wink  in  the  wind. 


The  narrow,  silent  street  I  pass  : 
The  house  stands  o'er  the  river : 

A  light  is  at  the  casement-glass, 
That  leads  my  soul  forever. 

I  feel  my  way  along  the  gloom. 
Stair  after  stair,  I  push  the  door 

I  find  no  change  within  the  room, 
And  all  things  as  of  yore. 

One  little  room  was  all  we  had 
For  June  and  for  December. 

The  world  is  wide,  but  O  how  sad 
It  seems,  when  I  remember  I 

The  cago  with  the  canary-bird 
Hangs  in  the  window  still  : 

The  small  red  rose-tree  is  not  stirred 
Upon  the  window-sill. 

"Wide  open  her  piano  stands  ; 

— Tliat  song  I  made  to  ease 
A  passing  pain  while  her  soft  hands 

Went  faintly  o'er  the  keys  I 

The    fire    within    the    Ptove  bums 
down  ; 

The  light  is  dying  fast. 
How  dear  is  all  it  shines  upon, 

That  firelight  of  the  Past  I 

No  sound  !  the  drowsy  Dutch-clock 

ticks, 
O,  how  should  I  forget 
The  slender  ebon  crucifix, 
That  by  her  bed  is  set  ? 

Her  little  bed  is  white  as  snow, — 
How  dear  that  little  bed  ! 

Sweet  dreams  about  the  curtains  go 
And  whisper  round  her  head. 

That  gentle  head  sleeps  o'er  her  arm 
— Sleeps  all  its  soft  brown  hair  : 

And  those  dear  clothes  of  hers,  yet 
warm. 
Droop  open  on  the  chair. 

Yet  warm  the  snowy  petticoat  1 

The  dainty  corset  too  ! 
How   warm    the   ribbon  from  her 
throat, 

And  warm  each  littlo  shoe  1 


IN  FRANCE. 


225 


Lie  soft,  dear  arm  upon  the  pillow  ! 

Sleep,  foolish  little  head  ! 
Ah,  well  she  sleeps  !  I  know  the  wil- 
low 

That  curtains  her  cold  bed. — 

Since  last  I  trod  that  silent  street 

'Tis  many  a  year  ago  : 
And,  if  I  there  could  set  my  feet 

Once  more,  I  do  not  know 

If  I  should  find  it  where  it  was, 
That  house  upon  the  river  : 

But  the  light  that  lit  the  casement- 
glass 
I  know  is  dark  forever. 

Eark  !  wheels  helow,  ...  my  lady's 

knock  ! 
— Farewell,  the  old  romance  ! — 
Well,   dear,  you're  late,— past  four 

o'clock  ! — 
How  often  did  you  dance  ? 

Not  cooler  from  the  crowning  waltz, 
She  takes  my  half  the  pillow. — 

Well, — well  ! — the  women  free  from 
faults 
Have  beds  below  the  willow  'I 


AT  HOME  AFTER  THE  BALL. 

The  clocks  are  calling  Three 

Across  the  silent  floors. 
The  fire  in  the  library 

Dies  out  ;  through  the  open  doors 
The  red  empty  room  you  may  see. 

In  the  nursery,  up  stairs. 
The  child  had  gone  to  sleep. 

Half-way  'twixt  dreams  and  prayers, 
When  the  hall- door  made  him  leap 

To  its  thunders  imawareb. 

Like  love  in  a  worldly  breast, 
Alone  in  my  lady's  chamber, 

The  lamp  bums  low,  supprest 
'Mid  satins  of  broidered  amber, 

Where  she  stands,  half  undrest  : 
15 


Her  bosom  all  unlaced  : 

Her  cheeks  with  a  bright  red  stop: 
Her  long  dark  hair  displaced, 

Down  streaming,  heeded  not, 
From  her  white  throat  to  her  waist : 

She  stands  up  her  full  height, 
With  her  ball-dress  slipping  down 
her. 
And  her  eyes  as  fixed  and  bright 
As  the  diamond  stars  that  crown 
her, — 
An  awful,  beautiful  sight. 

Beautiful,  yes  .  .  .  with  her  hair 
So  wild,  and  her  cheeks  so  flusht  I 

Awful,  yes  ...  for  there 
In  her  beauty  she  stands  husht 

By  the  pomp  of  her  own  despair  ! 

And  fixt  there,  without  doubt, 
Face  to  face  with  her  own  sorrow 

She  will  stand,  till,  from  without. 
The  light  of  the  neighboring  mor- 
row 

Creeps  in,  and  finds  her  out. 

With  last  night's  music  pealing 
Youth's  dirges  in  her  ears  : 

With  last  night's  lamps  revealing, 
In  the  charnels  of  old  years, 

The  face  of  each  dead  feeling. 

Ay,  Madam,  here  alone 

You  may  think,  till  your  heart  is 
broken. 
Of  the  love  that  is  dead  and  done, 

Of  the  days  that,  with  no  token, 
Forevermore  are  gone. — 

Weep  if  you  can,  beseech  you  I 
There's  no  one  by  to  cxn-b  you  : 

Your  child's  cry  cannot  reach  you  : 
Your  lord  will  not  disturb  you  : 

Weep  !  .  .  .  what  can  weeping  teach 
you? 

Your  tears  are  dead  iu  you. 

"WTiat  harm,  where    all    things 
change," 
You  say,  'Mf  we  change  too  ? 

—The  old  still  suunuy  Grange i 
Ah,  that's  far  off  i'  the  dew. 


:25 


77/ /v    WANDERER, 


"  Were  those  not  pleasant  hours, 

Ere  I  was  what  I  am  ? 
My  garden  of  fresh  flowers  I 

My  milk-white  weanling  lamb  I 
My  briglit  laburnum  bowers  ! 

*'  The  orchard  walls  so  trim  1 
The  redbreast  in  the  thorn  I 

The  twilight  soft  and  dim  I 

The  child's  heart  I  eve  and  morn, 

So  rich  with  thoughts  of  liim  I " 

Hush  !  your  wecanling  lamb  is  dead: 
Your  garden  trodden  over. 

They  have  broken  the  farm  shed  : 
They  have  buried  your  first  lover 

With  the  grass  above  his  head. 

Has  the  Past,  then,  so  much  power, 
You  dare  take  not  from  the  shelf 

That  book  with  the  dry  flower, 
Lest  it  make  you  hang  yourself 

For  being  yomself  for  an  hour  ? 

Why  can't  you  let  thought  be 

For  even  a  little  while  ? 
There's  nought  in  memory 

Can  briug  you  back  the  smile 
Those  lips  have  lost.     Just  se'i. 

Here  what  a  costly  gem 

To-night  in  your  hair  you  wor<' — 
Pearls  on  a  diamond  stem  I 

"WTien  sweet  things  are  no  more, 
Better  not  think  of  them. 

Arc  3  ou  saved  by  pangs  that  pained 
you, 
Is  there  comfort  in  all  it  cost  you, 
Before  the  world  had  gained  you, 

Before  that  God  had  lost  you, 
Or  your  soul  had   quite  disdained 
you '? 

For  your  soul  (and  ihis^  is  vrorsl 
To  bear,  as  you  v.-ell  know ) 

Has  been  watching  you,  from  first, 
As  sadly  as  God  could  do  ; 

And  yourself  yourself  have  curst. 

Talk  of  the  flames  of  Hell  1 

We  fuel  ourselves,  I  conceive, 
The  tire  the  Fiend  lighta.     Well, 


Believe  or  disbelieve,  \ 

We  know  more  than  we  tell  I 

\ 
Surely  you  need  repose  1  j 

To-morrow  again — the  Ball. 

And  you  must  revive  the  rose  [ 

In  your  cheek,  to  bloom  for  all.      \ 

Not  go  ?  .  .  .  why  the  whole  world  j 

goes.  I 

To  bed  I  to  bed  !    'Tis  sad  1 

To  find  that  Fancy's  wings  J 

Have  lost  the  hues  they  had.  i 

In  thinking  of  these  things 

Some  women  have  gone  mad. 

AU  CAFE  *  *  * 

A  PAKTY  of  friends,  all  light-hearted  ' 
and  gay, 
At  a  certain  French  cafo',  where 
eveiyone  goes. 
Are  met,  in  a  well-curtained  warm : 
cabinet^ 
Overlooking  a  stiivi  there,  which 
every  one  knows. 

The  guests    are,   three   ladies  well  I 
knowji  and  admired  : 
One  adorns  the  Lyrique ;  one  .  .  . 
I  oft  have  beheld  her 
At  the    Vaudeville,  with  raptures  ; 
the  third  lives  retired 
'' Dans  ses  yneubles''  .  .  .  (we  all 
know  her  house)  .  .  .  Hue  de-^ 
Helder. 

Besides    these    is    a    fourth  ...  a 
young  Englishman,  lately 
Presented  the  romid  of  the  "clulis 
in  the  town. 
A    taciturn  Anglican    coldness    se- 
dately 
Invests  him  :  unthawed  by  Clar- 
isse,  he  sits  down. 

But  little  he  speaks,  and  but  rarely 
lie  shares 
In  the  laughter  around  him  ;   his 
smiles  are  but  few  ; 
There's  a  sneer  in  the  look  that  his 
countenance  wears 
In  repose ;  and  fatigue  in  the  eyce* 
weary  blue. 


IN  FRANCE, 


227 


Tlie  rest  are  three  Frenchmen.  Three 
Frenchmen  (thank  heaven  !) 
4re  but  rarely  morose,  with  Cham- 
pagne and  Bordeaux  : 
And  their  wit,   and  their  laughter, 
suttices  to  leaven 
AVith  mirth  their  mute  guest's  im- 
itation of  snow. 

The  dinner  is  done  :  the  Lafitte  in 
its  basket, 
The  Champagne  in  its  cooler,  is 
passed  in  gay  haste  ; 
Whatever  you  wish  for,  you  have  but 
to  ask  it  : 
Here  are  coffee,   cigars,   and    li- 
queurs to  your  taste. 

And  forth  from  the  bottles  the  corks 
fly;  and  chilly. 
The  bright  wine,  in  bubbling  and 
blushing,  confoimds 
Its  warmth  with    the    ice    that    it 
seethes  round  ;  and  shrilly 
(Till  stifled  by  kisses)  the  laughter 
resounds. 

Strike,  strike  the  piano,  beat  loud  at 
the  wall  ! 
Let  wealthy  old  Lycus  with  jeal- 
ousy groan 
Next  door, while  fair  Chloris  responds 
to  the  call. 
Too  fair  to  be  supping  with  Lycus 
alone  I  * 

Clarisse,  with  a  smile,  has  subsided, 
opprest. 
Half,  perhaps,  by  Champagne  .  .  . 
half,  perhaps,  by  affection, — 
In  the  arms  of  the  taciturn,  cold, 
Enghsh  guest. 
With,  just  rising  athwart  her  im- 
perial complexion, 

One  tinge  that  young  Evian  himself 
have  kist 
From  the  fairest  of  Maenads  that 
danced  in  his  troop  ; 

■^  "  Audeat  invidus 

Dement^m  fitrepitum  Lycus 
Et  vicina  aeni  uou  Imbilia  Lyco." 

HOttACE. 


And  her  deep  hair,  unloosed  from  its 
sumptuous  twist, 
Overshowering  her  throat  and  her 
bosom  a-droop. 

The    soft    snowy  throat,    and    the 
round,  dimpled  chin, 
Upturned  from  the  arm-fold  where 
hangs  the  rich  head  ! 
And  the  warm  lips  apart,  while  the 
white  lips  begin 
To  close  over  the  dark  languid  eyes 
which  they  shade  ! 

And  next  to  Clarisse  (with  her  wild 
hair  all  wet 
From  the  wine,  in  whose  blush  its 
faint  fire-fly  gold 
She  was  steeping  just  now),  the  blue- 
eyed  Juliette 
Is  murmuring  her  witty  bad  things 
to  Arnold. 

Cries  Arnold  to  the  dumb  English 
guest  ..."  Mon  ami, 
What's  the  matter  ?  .  .  .  you  can't 
sing  .  .  .  well,  speak,  then,  at 
least  - 
More  grave,  had  a  man  seen  a  ghost, 
could  he  be  ? 
Mais  quel  drole  de  farceur  !  .  . 
comme  il  a  le  vin  triste  ! " 

And  says  Charles  to  Eugene  (vainly 
seeking  to  borrow 
Ideas  from  a  yawn  .  .  .  ''At  the 
club  there  are  three  of  us 
With  the  Duke,  and  we  play  laus 
quenet  till  to-morrow  : 
I  am  off  on  the  spur  .  .  .  what 
say  you  ?  .  .  .  will  you  be  of 
us?" 

''Man  enfant,  tu  me  boudes — tu  me 
boudes,  cheri,*^ 
Sighs  the  soft  Celestine  on   the 
breast  of  Eugene  ; 
**  Ah  bah  I  ne  mefais  pas  poser,  mon 
amie,'^ 
Lauijhs  her  lover,  and  lifts  to  his 
lips — the  Champagne. 


223 


THE  IVAiVDERER. 


And  loud  from  the  bottles  the  corks 
fly  ;  and  chilly 
The  wine  gurgles  up  to  its  fine 
crystal  bounds. 
While  Charles  rolls  his  paper  cigars 
round,  how  shrilly 
(Till  kist  out)  the  laughter  of  Juli- 
ette resounds  ! 

Strike,  strike  the  piano!  beat  loud  at 
the  wall  ! 
Let  wealthy  old  Lycus  with  jeal- 
ousy groan 
Next  door, while  fair  Chloris  responds 
to  the  call, 
Too  fair  to  be  supping  with  Lycus 
alone. 

There  is  Celestine  singing,  and  Eu- 
gene is  swearing. — 
Li  the  midst  of  the  laughter,  the 
oaths,  and  the  songs. 
Falls    a    knock    at  the    door ;    but 
there's  nobody  hearing  : 
Each,  uninterrupted,  the  revel  pro- 
longs. 

Said  I .  .  .  "nobody  hearing?"  one 
only  ; — the  guest, 
The  morose  English  stranger,  so 
dull  to  the  charms 
Of  Clarisse,  and  Juliette,  Celestine, 
and  the  rest ; 
Who  sits,  cold  as  a  stone,  with  a 
girl  in  his  arms. 

Once,  twice,  and  three  times,  he  has 
heard  it  repeated  ; 
And  louder,  and  fiercer,  each  time 
the  somid  falls. 
And  his  cheek  is  death  pale,  'mid 
the  others  so  heated  ; 
There's  a  step  at  the  door,  too,  his 
fancy  recalls. 

And  he  rises  .  .  .  (just  so  an  automa- 
ton rises, — 
Some    man    of    mechanics    made 
up, — that  must  move 
In  the   way  that  the  wheel  moves 
within  him  ; — there  lies  his 
Sole  path  fixt  before  him,  below 
and  above). 


He  rises  .  .  „  and,  scarcely  a  glancel) 

casting  on  her,  j 

Flings  from  him  the  beauty  asleep  1 

on  his  shoulder  ;  , 

Charles  springs  to  his  feet  ;  Eugeneti 

mutters  of  honor  ; 

But  there's  that  in   the  stranger; 

that  awes  each  beholder. 

For  the  hue  on  his  cheek,  it  is  whiter  f^ 
than  whiteness  :  : 

The  hair  creeps  on  his  head  like  a  \ 
strange  living  thing. 
The  lamp  o'er  the  table  has  lost  half  f 
its  brightness  ; 
Juliette  cannot  laugh  ;  Celestine 
cannot  sing. 

He  has  opened  the  door  in  a  silence' 

unljroken  : 

And  the  gaze  of  all  eyes  where  he  \ 

stands  is  fixt  wholly  : 

Not  a  hand  is  there  raised  ;  not  a  \ 

word  is  there  spoken  : 

He  has  opened  the  door  ;  .  .  .  and  I 

there  comes  through  it  slowly  / 

A  woman,  as  pale  as  a  dame  on  at 

tombstone,  i ' 

With    desolate  violet   eyes,   openii 

wide  ; 

Her  look,  as  she  turns  it,  turns  all  1 
in  the  room  stone  : 
She  sits  down  on   the  sofa,   the^. 
stranger  beside. 

Her  hair  it  is  yellow,  as  moonlight  it 
on  water 
Which  stones  in  some  eddy  tor- 
ment into  waves  ; 
Her  lips  are  as  red  as  new  blood  spilt  i, 
in  slaughter  ; 
Her  cheek  like  a  ghost's  seen  by  > 
night  o'er  the  graves. 

Her  place  by  the  taciturn  guest  she 
has  taken  ; 
And  the  glass  at  her  side  she  has 
filled  with  Champagne. 
As  she  bows  o'er  the  board,  all  the 
revellers  awaken. 
She  has  pledged  her  mute  friend 
and  she  fills  up  again. 


ZN  FRANCE. 


229 


Clarisse    has    awaked  ;     and    with 
shrieks  leaves  the  table. 
Juliette  wakes,  and  faints  in  the 
arms  of  Arnold. 
Ajid  Charles  and  Eugene,  with  what 
speed  they  are  able, 
Are  otf  to  the  club,  where  this  tale 
shall  be  told. 

Celestine  for  her  brougham,  on  the 
stairs,  was  appealing, 
With  hysterical  sobs,  to  the  surly 
concierge^ 
When  a  ray  through  the  doorway 
stole  to  her,  revealing 
A  sight  that  soon  changed  her  ap- 
peal to  "ia  vierye.'" 

All  the  light-hearted  friends  from 
tht  chamber  are  tied  :• 
And  the  cafe'  itself  has  grown  si- 
lent by  this. 
From  the  dark  street  below,  you  can 
scarce  hear  a  tread, 
Save  the  Gendarme's,  who  reigns 
there  as  gloomy  as  Dis. 

The  shadow  of  night  is  beginning  to 
flit: 
Through  the  gray  window  shim- 
mers the  motionless  town. 
The  ghost  and  the  stranger,  together 
they  sit 
Side  by  side  at  the  table — the  place 
is  their  own. 

They  nod  and  change  glances,  that 
pale  man  and  woman  ; 
For  they  both  are  well  known  to 
each  other  :  and  then 
Some  ghosts  have  a  look  that's  so 
horribly  human, 
In  the  street  you  might  meet  them, 
and  take  them  for  men. 

"  Thou  art  changed,  my  beloved !  and 
the  lines  have  grown  stronger. 
And  the  cui-is  have  grown  scanner, 
that  meet  on  thy  brow. 
Ah,  faithless  I  and  dost  thou  remem- 
ber no  longer 
The  hour  of  our  passion,  the  words 
of  thy  vow  ? 


"  Thy  kiss,  on  my  hps  it  is  burning 
forever  1 
I  cannot  sleep  calm,  for  my  bed  is 
so  cold. 
Embrace  me  !  close  .  .  .  closer  .  .  .  O 
let  us  part  never, 
And  let  all  be  again  as  it  once  was 
of  old  I " 

So   she    murmurs   repiningly  ever. 
Her  breath 
Lifts  his  hair  like  a  night-wind  in 
winter.     And  he  .  .  . 
"  Thy  hand,  O  Irene,  is  icy  as  death, 
But  thy  face  is  unchanged  in  its 
beauty  to  me." 

*'  'Tis  so  cold,  my  beloved  one,  down 
there,  and  so  drear." 
"Ah,    thy    sweet    voice,    Irene, 
sounds  hollow  and  strange  I" 
"'Tis  the  chills  of  the  grave  that 
have  changed  it,  I  fear  : 
But  the  voice  of  my  heart  there's 
no  chill  that  can  change." 

"Ha  !  thy  pale  cheek  is  flusht  with 
a  heat  like  my  own. 
Is  it  breath,  is  it  flame,  on  thy 
lips  that  is  burning  ? 
Ha  !  thy  heart  flutters  wuld,  as  of 
old,  'neath  thy  zone. 
And  those  cold  eyes  of  thine  fill 
with  passionate  yearning." 

Thus,  embracing  each  other,   they 
bend  and  they  waver. 
And,  laughing  and  weeping,  con- 
verse.    The  pale  ghost, 
As  the  wine  warms  the  grave-worm 
within  her,  grown  braver, 
Fills  her  glass  to  the  brim,  and 
proposes  a  toast. 

"  Here's  a  health  to  the  glow-worm, 
Death's  sober  lamplighter, 
That  saves  from  the  darkness  be- 
low the  gravestone 
The  tomb's  pallid  pictures  .  .  .  the 
sadder  the  brighter  ; 
Shapes  of  beauty  each  stony-eyed 
corpse  there  hath  known  : 


^z^ 


THE  WANJDEREK. 


"  Mere  rough  sketches  of  life,  where 
a  ghmpse  goes  for  all, 
Which  the  Master  keeps  (all  the 
rest  let  the  world  have  !) 
But  though  only  rough-scrawled  ou 
the  blank  charnel  wall, 
l5  their  truth  the  less  sharp,  that 
'tis  sheathed  in  the  grave  ? 

**  Here's  to  Love  .  .  .  the  prime  pas- 
sion .  .  .  the    harp    that   we 
sung  to 
In  the  orient  of  youth,  in  the  days 
pure  of  pain  ; 
The  cup  that  we  quaffed  in  :  the 
stirrup  we  sprung  to. 
So    light,    ere    the    journey    was 
made — and  in  vain  ! 

"  O  the  life  that  we  lived  once  !  the 
beauty  so  fair  once  ! 
Let  them  go  !  wherefore  weep  for 
what  tears  could  not  save  ? 
What  old    trick  sets  us  aping  the 
fools  that  we  v.-ere  once, 
And  tickies  our  brains  even  under 
the  grave  ? 

"  There's    a    small    stinging   worm 
which  the  grave  ever  breeds 
From  the  folds  of  the  shroud  that 
around  us  is  spread  : 
There's  a  little  blind  maggot  that 
revels  and  feeds 
On  the  life  of  the  living,  the  sleep 
of  the  dead. 

"To  our  friends  !  .  .  .  "     But  the 
full  flood  of  dawn  through  the 
pane. 
Having   slowly  rolled    down    the 
huge  street  there  unheard 
(While  the  great,  new,  blue  sky,  o'er 
the  white  Madeleine 
Was  wide  opening  itself),  from  her 
lip  washed  th^  word  ; 

Washed  her  face  faint  and  fainter  ; 
while,  dimmer  and  dimmer, 
In  its  seat,  the  pale  form  flickered 
out  like  a  flame, 


As  broader,  and  brighter,  and  fuller,  j 
the  glimmer 
Of  day  through  the  heat-clouded  i 
window  became. 

And  the  day  mounts  apace.     Some  j 
one  opens  the  door. 
In  ehuffles  a  waiter  with  sleepy 
red  eyes  :  ' 

He  stares  at  the  cushions  flung  loose 
on  the  floor. 
On  the  bottles,   the  glasses,  the 
plates,  with  surprise.  i 

Stranger  still  !  he  sees  seated  a  man  | 

at  the  table,  , 

With  his  head  on  his  hands.:  in  a  i 

sy.imber  he  seems,  ' 

So  wild,  and  so  strange,  he  no  longer  ; 

is  able 

In  silence  to    thrid   through  the 

path  of  his  dreams.  j 

For  he  moans,  and  he  mutters  :  he 
moves  and  he  motions  : 
To  the  dream  that  he  dreams  o'ei 
his  wine-cup  he  pledges. 
And  his  sighs  sound,  through  sleep, 
like  spent  winds  over  ocean's 
Last  verge,  where  the  world  hides 
its  outermost  edges. 

The  gas-lamp  falls  sick  in  the  tube  :  ; 
and  so,  dying,  ' 

To  the  fumes  of  spilt  wine,  and 
cigars  but  half  smoked. 
Adds  the  stench  of  its  last  gasp  : 
chairs  broken  are  lying 
All  about  o'er  the  carpet  stained, 
littered,  and  soaked. 

A    touch    starts    the    sleeper.     He 
wakes.     It  is  day. 
And  the  beam  that  dispels  all  the 
phantoms  of  night  ! 

Through  the  rooms  sends  its  kindly 
and  comforting  ray  : 
The  streets  are  new-peopled  :  tho 
morning  is  bright. 


IN  FRANCE. 


231 


And  tLe  city's  so  fair  !  and  the  dawn 
breaks  so  brightly  ! 
With  gay  flowers   in  the  market, 
gay  girls  in  the  street. 
Whate'er    the   strange    beings   that 
visit  us  nightly, 
"When    Paris    aAvakes,    from    her 
smile  they  retreat. 

1  myself  have,  at  morning,  beheld 
them  departing  ; 
Some  in  masks,  and  in  dominos, 
footing  it  on  ; 
Some  like  imps,  some  like  fairies  ; 
at  cockcrow  all  starting, 
And  speedily  flitting  from   sight 
one  by  one. 

And    that   wonderful    night-flower, 
Memory,  that,  tearful, 
Unbosom. s  to  darkness  her  heart 
full  of  dew. 
Folds  her  leaves  round  again,  and 
from  day  shrinks  up  fearful 
In  the  cleft  of  her  ruin,  the  shade 
of  her  yew. 

This  broad   daylight    life's  strange 
enough  :  and  wherever 
We  wander,  or  walk  ;  in  the  club, 
in  the  streets  ; 
Not  a  straw  on  the  ground  is  too 
trivial  to  sever 
Each  man  in  the  crowd  from  the 
others  he  meets. 

Each  walks  with  a  spy  or  a  jailer  be- 
hind him 
(Some  word  he  has  spoken,  some 
deed  he  has  done)  : 
And  the  step,  now  and  then,  quick- 
ens, just  to  remind  him, 
In  the  crowd,  in  the  sun,  that  he 
is  not  alone. 

But  'tis  hard,  when  by  lamplight, 
'mid  laughter  and  songs  too. 
Those  return, ...  we  have  buried, 
and  mourned  for,  and  prayed 
for, 
And  done  with  .  .  .  and,  free  of  the 
grave  it  belongs  to, 
Some  ghost  drinks  your  health  in 
the  wine  you  have  paid  for. 


Wreathe  the  rose,  O  Young  Man  ; 
pour  the  wine.  What  thou  hast 
That  enjoy  all  the  days  of   thy 
youth.    Spare  thou  naught. 
Yet  beware  ! ...  at  the  board  sits  a 
ghost — 'tis  the  Past ; 
In  thy  heart  lurks  a  weird  necro- 
mancer— 'tis  Thought. 


THE  CHESS-BOARD. 

My  little  love,  do  you  remember, 

Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise, 
Those  evenings  in  the  bleak  Decem- 
ber, 
Curtained    warm    from    the  snowy 

weather, 
Wlien  you  and  I  played   chess  to- 
gether, 
Checkmated  by  each  other's  eyes  ? 
Ah,  still  I  see  your  soft  white  liand 
Hovering    warm     o'er    Queen    and 
Knight. 
Brave    Pawns    in    valiant    battle 
stand. 
The  double  Castles  guard  the  wings  : 
The  Bishop,  bent  on  distant  things, 
Moves,  sidling  through  the  fight. 
Our  fingers    touch  ;    our  glances 

meet. 
And  falter  ;  falls  your  golden  hair 
Against  my  cheek  ;  your  bosom 
sweet 
Is  heaving.     Down  the  field,  your 

Queen 
Rides  slow  her  soldiery  all  between, 
And  checks  me  unaware. 
Ah  me  !  the  little  battle's  done, 
Disperst  is  all  its  chivalry  ; 
Full  many  a  move,  since  then,  have 

we 
■Mid    Life's     perplexing     checkers 

made, 
And    many  a    game  with  Fortune 
played, — 
What  is  it  we  have  won  ? 
This,  this  at  least — if  this  alone  ; — 
That  never,  never,  never  more. 
As  in  those  old  still  nights  of  yore 
(Ere  we  were  growu  so  sadly  wise), 


232 


THE  WAATDERER. 


Can  you  and  I  shut  out  the  skies, 
Shut    out    the    world,    and    wintry 
weather, 
And,  eyes  exchanging  warmth  with 
eyes, 
play  chess,  as  then  we  played,  to- 
gether I 


SONG. 

If  Sorrow  have  taught  me  anything, 

She  hath  taught  me  to  weep  for 
you; 
And  if  Falsehood  have  left  me  a  tear 
to  shed 

For  Truth,  these  tears  are  true. 
If  the  one  star  left  by  the  morning 

Be  dear  to  the  dying  night, 
If  the  late  lone  rose  of  October 

Be  sweetest  to  scent  and  sight. 
If  the  last  of  the  leaves  in  December 

Be  dear  to  the  desolate  tree, 
Remember,  beloved,  O  remember 

How  dear  is  your  beauty  to  me  1 

And  more  dear  than  the  gold,  is  the 
silver 
Grief  hath    sown    in  that  hair's 
young  gold  : 
And  lovelier  than  youth  is  the  lan- 
guage 
Of  the  thoughts  that  have  made 
youth  old  ; 
We  must  love,  and  unlove,  and  for- 
get, dear — 
Fashion  and  shatter  the  spell 
Of  how  many  a  love  in  a  life,  dear — 
Ere  life  learns  to  love  once  and 
love  well. 
Then  what  matters  it,   yesterday's 
sorrow  ? 
Since  I  have  outlived  it — see  ! 
And  what  matter  the  cares  of  to- 
morrow, 
Since  you,  dear,  will  share  them 
with  me  ? 

To  love  it  is  hard,  and  'tis  harder 

Perchance  lo  be  loved  again  : 
But  you'll  love  m*?,  I  know,  now  I 
love  you,— ' 


What  I  seek  I  am  patient  to  gain. 
To  the  tears  I  have  shed,  and  regret 
not. 
What  matter  a  few  more  tears  ? 
Or  a  few  days'  waiting  longer. 

To  one  that  has  waited  for  years  ? 
Hush  !  lay  your  head  on  my  breast, 
there. 
Not  a  word  ! .  .  .  while  I  weep  for 
your  sake, 
Sleep,  and  forget  me,  and  rest  there  : 
My  heart  will  wait  warm  till  you 
wake. 
For — if  Sorrow  have  taught  me  any- 
thing [you  ; 
She  hath  taught  me  to  weep  for 
And  if  Falsehood  have  left  me  a  tear 
to  shed 
For  Truth,  these  tears  are  true  1 

THE  LAST  REMONSTRANCE. 

Yes  !  I  am  worse  than  thou  didst 
once  believe  me. 
Worse  than  thou  deem'st  me  now 
I  cannot  be — 
But  say  "the  Fiend's  no  blacker," 
.  .  .  canst  thou  leave  me  ? 
Where  wilt  thou  flee  ? 

Where  wilt  thou  bear  the  relics  of 
the  days 
Squandered  round  this  dethroned 
love  of  thine  ? 
Hast  thou  the  silver  and  the  gold  to 
raise 
A  new  God's  shrine  ? 

Thy  cheek  hath  lost  its  roundness 
and  its  bloom  : 
Who  will  forgive  those  signs  whero 
tears  have  fed 
On  thy  once  lustrous  eyes, — save  he 
for  whom 
Those  tears  were  shed  ? 

Know  I  not  every  grief  whose  course 
hath  sown 
Lines  on   thy  brow,  and  silver  in 
thy  hair  ? 
Will  new  love  learn  the  language, 
mine  alone 
Hath  graven  there  ? 


IN  FRANCE. 


233 


Despite  the  blemisht  beauty  of  thy 
brow, 
Thou  wouldst  be  lovely,  couldst 
thou  love  again  ; 
For  Love  renews  the  Beautiful :  but 
thou 
Hast  only  pain. 

How  wilt  thou  bear  from  pity  to  im- 
plore 
What  once  those  eyes  from  rapture 
could  command  ? 
How  wilt  thou  stretcli — who  wast  a 
Queen  of  yore — 
A  suppliant's  hand  ? 

Even  were  thy  heart  content  from 
love  to  ask 
No   more  than  neecis  to   keep  it 
from  the  chill, 
Hast  thou  the   strength   to   recom- 
mence the  task 
Of  pardoning  still  ? 

Wilt  thou  to  one,  exacting  all  that  I 
Have  lost  the  right  to  ask  for,  still 
extend 
Forgiveness  on  forgiveness,  with  that 
sigh 
That  dreads  the  end  ? 

Ah,  ii  thy  heart  can  pardon  yet,  why 
yet 
Should  not  its  latest  pardon  be  for 
me? 
For  who  will  bend,  the  boon  he  seeks 
to  get, 
On  lowlier  knee  ? 

Where  wilt  thou  tind  the  unworthier 
heart  than  mine, 
That  it  may  be  more  grateful,  or 
more  lowly  ? 
To  whom  else,  pardoning  much,  be- 
come divine 
By  pardoning  wholly  ? 

Hath  not  thy  forehead  paled  beneath 
my  kiss  ? 
And  through  thy  life  have  I  not 
writ  my  name  ? 
Hath  not  my  soul  signed  thine  ?  .  .  . 
I  gave  thee  bliss. 
If  I  gave  shaaie  • 


The  shame,    but  not  the   bliss, 
where'er  thou  goest, 
Will  haunt  thee   yet  :   to   me  no 
shame  thou  hast  : 
To  me  alone,  what  now  thou  art, 
thou  knowest 
By  what  thou  wast. 

What  other  hand  will  help  thy  hear: 
to  swell 
To  raptures  mine   first   taught  it 
how  to  feel  ? 
Or  from  the  unchorded  harp  and  va- 
cant shell 
New  notes  reveal  ? 

Ah,  by  my  dark  and  sullen  nature 
nurst. 
And  rocked    by  passion  on  this 
stormy  heart. 
Be  mine  the  last,  as  thou  wert  mine 
the  first  ! 
We  dare  not  part  ! 

At  best  a  fallen  Angei  to  mankind, 
To  me  be  still  the  seraph  I   have 
dared 
To  show  my  hell  to,  and  whose  love 
resigned 
Its  pain  hath  shared. 

If,  faring  on  together,  I  have  fed 
Thy   lips    on   poisons,    they  were 
sweet  at  least. 
Nor  couldst  thou  thrive  where  ho- 
lier Love  hath  spread 
His  simpler  feast. 

r  'hange  would  be  death.     Could  sev- 
erance from  my  side 
Bring  thee  repose,  I   would    not 
bid  thee  stay. 
My  love  should  meet,  as  calmly  as 
my  pride. 
That  parting  day. 

It  may  not  be  :  for  thou  couldst  not 
forget  me, — 
Not  that  my  own   is  more  thaa 
other  natures. 
But  that  'tis  different  :    and   thoa 
wouldst  regret  me 
']^Iid  purer  creatures. 


234 


THE  WANDERER. 


Then,  if  love's  first  ideal  now  grows 
wan, 
And  thou  wilt  love  again, — again 
love  me, 
For  what  I  am  : — no  hero,  but  a  man 
Still  loving  thee. 


SORCERY. 


You're  a  milk-white  Panther  : 

I'm  a  Genius  of  the  air. 
You're  a  Princess  once  enchanted  ; 

That  is  why  you  seem  so  fair. 

For  a  crime  untold,  unwritten, 
That  was  done  an  age  ago, 

I  have  lost  my  wings,  and  wander 
In  the  wilderness  below. 

In  a  dream  too  long  indulged, 

In  a  Palace  by  the  sea, 
You  were  changed  to  what  you  are 

By  a  muttered  sorcery. 

Your  name  came  on  my  lips 
When  I  first  looked  in  your  eyes  \ 

At  my  feet  you  fawned,  you  knew 
me 
In  despite  of  all  disguise. 

The  black  elephants  of  Delhi 
Are  the  wisest  of  their  kind, 

And  the  libbards  of  Soumatra 
Are  full  of  eyes  behind  : 

But  they  guessed  not,  they  divined 
not. 
They  believed  me  of  the  earth, 
When  I  walked  among  them,  mourn- 
ing 
For  the  region  of  my  birth. 

Till  I  found  you  in  the  moonlight. 

Then  at  once  I  knew  it  all. 
You  were  sleeping  in  the  sand  here, 

But  you  wakened  to  my  call. 

I  knew  why,  in  your  slumber. 
You  were  moaning  piteously  : 

You  heard  a  Hound  of  harping 
From  a  Palact;  by  the  sea. 


Through  the  wilderness  together 
We  must  wander  everywhere. 

Till  we  find  the  magic  berry 
That  shall  make  us  what  we  were. 

'Tis  a  berry  sweet  and  bitter, 
I  have  heard  ;  there  is  but  one  ; 

On  a  tall  tree,  by  a  fountain, 
In  the  desert  all  alone. 

Wlien  at  last  'tis  found  and  eaten, 
We  shall  both  be  what  we  were  ; 

You,  a  Princess  of  the  water, 
I,  a  Genius  of  the  air. 

See  !  the  Occident  is  flaring 
Far  behind  us  in  the  skies, 

And  our  shadows  float  before  us. 
Night  is  coming  forth.     Arise  I 


ADIEU,    MIGNONNE,   MA 
BELLE. 

Adieu,   Mignonne,  ma  belle  .  .    /' 
when  you  are  gone, 
Yague  thoughts  of  you  will  wan- 
der, searching  love 
Through  this  dim  heart  :  through 
this  dim  room,  Mignonne, 
Vague   fragrance  from,  your  hair 
and  dress  will  move. 

How  will    you  think  of  this  poor 
heart  to-morrow. 
This  poor  fond  heart  with  all  its 
joy  in  you  ? 
Which  you  were  fain    to  lean  on, 
once,  in  sorrow, 
Though    now  you  bid  it  such 
light  adieu. 

You'll  sing  perchance  .  .  .  "I  passed 
a  night  of  dreams 
Once,  in  an  old  inn's  old  worm^ 
eaten  bed. 
Passing    on    life's    highway.     Hoi 
strange  it  seems, 
That  never  more  I  there  shall  les 
my  head  I " 


IN  FRANCE. 


235 


Adieu,  Mignonnc,  adien,  Migiionne, 
ma  belle  I 
Ah,  little  witcli,  our  greeting  was 
so  gay, 
Our  love  so  paiiiless,   who'd  have 
thought  ''  Farewell " 
Could  ever  be  so  sad   a   word  to 
say? 

I  leave  a  thousand  fond  farewells 
with  you  : 
Some  for  your  red  wet  lips,  which 
were  so  sweet  : 
Some  foi  your  darling  eyes,  so  dear, 
so  blue  : 
Some    for    your    wicked,   wanton 
little  feet  : 

But  for  yoiu-  little  heart,  not  yet 
awake, — 
What  can  I  leave  your  little  heart, 
Mignonne  ? 
It  seems  so  fast  asleep,  I  fear  to 
break 
The  poor  thing's  slumber.     Let  it 
still  sleep  on  I 

TO  MIGNONNE. 

At  morning,  from  the  sunlight 
I  shall  miss  your  sunny  face. 

Leaning,  laughing,  on  my  shoulder 
With  its  careless  infant  grace  ; 
And  your  hand  there. 

With  its  rosy,  inside  color. 
And  the  sparkle  of  its  rings  ; 

And  your  soul  from  this  old  chamber 
Missed  in  fifty  little  things, 
"VNIien  I  stand  there. 

And  the  roses  in  the  garden 
Droop  stupid  all  the  day, — 

Red,  thirsty  mouths  wide  open, 
With  not  a  word  to  say  I 
Their  last  meaning 

Is  all  faded,  like  a  fragrance, 

From  the  languishing  late  flowers, 
With    your  feet,  your    slow    white 
movements,  « 

And  your  face,  in  silent  hours, 
O'er  them  leaning. 


And,  in  long,  cool  summer  evenings, 
I  shall  never  see  you,  drest 

In  those  pale  violet  colors 

Which  suit  your  sweet  face  best. 
Here's  yoiu  glove,  child, 

Soiled  and  empty,  as  you  left  it. 
Yet  your  hand's  warmth  seem-s  to 
stay 
In  it  still,  as  though  this  moment 
You  had  drawn  your  hand  away  ; 
Like  your  love,  child, 

\\Tiich  still  stays  about  my  fancy. 

See  this  little,  silken  boot. — 
What  a  plaything  I  was  there  ever 

Such  a  slight  and  slender  foot  ? 
Is  it  strange  now 

How  that,  when  your  lips  are  nearest 
To  the  lips  they  feed  upon 

For  a  siunmer  time,  till  bees  sleep, 
On  a  sudden  you  are  gone  ? 
What  new  change  now 

Sets  you  sighing  .  .  .  eyes  uplifted 

To  the  starry  night  above  ? 
''God  is  great  .  .  .  the  soul's  im- 
mortal .  .  . 
Must  we  die,  though  !  ...  Do  you 
love? 

One  kiss  more,  then  : 

''Life  might  end  now  I"  .  .  .  And 
next  moment 
With  those  wicked  little  feet. 
You  have  vanished, — like  a  Fairy 
From  a  fountain  in  the  heat, 
And  all's  o'er,  then. 

Well,    no    matter  !  .  .  .  hearts    are 
breaking 
Every  day,  but  not  for  you, 
Little  wanton,  ever  making 

Chains    of    rose,   to    break    them 
through. 

I  would  mourn  you, 

But  your  red   smile  was  too  warm, 
Sweet, 
And  your  little  heart  too  cold, 
And  your  blue  eyes  too  blue  merely, 
For  a  strong,  sad  man  to  scold. 
Weep,  or  scorn,  you. 


236 


THE  V/ANDERER. 


For  that  smile's  soft,  transient  sun- 
sliine 
At  my  hearth,  when  it  was  chill, 
I  shall  never  do  your  name  wrong, 
But  think  kindly  of  you  still  ; 
And  each  moment 

Of  your  pretty  infant  angers, 

(Who  could  help  but  smile  at .  .  . 
when 
Those  small  feet  would  stamp  our 
love  out  ?) 
Why,  I  pass  them  now,  as  then, 
Without  comment. 

Only,  here,  when  I  am  searching 
For  the  book  I  cannot  find, 

I  must  sometimes  pass  your  boudoir. 
Howsoever  disinclined  ; 

And  must  meet  there 

The  gold  bird-cage  in  the  window. 
Where  no  bird  is  singing  now  ; 
The  small  sofa  and  the  footstool, 
Where   I  miss  ...  I   know    not 
how  .  .  . 

Your  young  feet  there, 

Silken-soft  in  each  quaint  slipper  ; 

And  the  jevvelled  writing-case, 
WbTe  you  never  more  will   write 
now  ; 
And  the  vision  of  your  face, 
Just  turned  to  me  : — 

i  would  save  this,  if  I  could,  child, 
But  that's  all.    .  .  .  September's 
here  ! 
J  must  write  a  book  :  read  twenty  : 
Learn  a  language  .  .  .  what's  to 
fear? 

Who  grows  gloomy 
Being  free  to  work,  as  I  am  ? 

Yet  these  autumn  nights  are  cold. 
How  I  wonder  how  you'll  pass  them! 
Ah,  .  .  .  could  all  be  as  of  old  ! 
But  'tis  best  so. 

All  good  things  must  go  for  better, 

As  the  primrose  for  the  rose. 
Is  love  free  ?  why  so  is  life,  too  I 
Holds  the  grave  fast  ?  .  .  .  I  sup- 
pose 
Things  must  rest  so. 


COMPENSATION. 

When  the  days  are  silent  all 

Till  the  drear  light  falls  ; 
And  the  nights  pass  with  the  p.i,U 

Of  Love's  funerals  ;  I 

When    the    heart  is  weighed    uiih   ? 

years  ;  I 

And  the  eyes  "oo  weak  for  tears  ; 

And  life  like  .loath  appears  ;  i 

Is  it  naught,  O  soul  of  mine. 

To  hear  i'  the  windy  track  , 

A  voice  with  a  song  divine  ! 

Calling  thy  footsteps  back  i' 

To  the  land  thou  lovest  best,  | 

Toward  the  Garden  in  the  West  , 
Where  thou  hast  once  been  blest  ?       ' 

Is  it  naught,  O  aching  brow, 

To  feel  in  the  dark  hour,  [ 

Which  came,  though  called,  so  slow,    \ 

And,  though  loathed,  yet  lingei-S    ' 
slower, 
A  hand  upon  thy  pain, 
Lovingly  laid  again, 
Smoothing  the  ruffled  brain  ? 

U  love,  my  own  and  only  1 

The  seraphs  shall  not  see 
By  my  looks  that  life  was  lonely  » 

But  that  'twas  blest  by  thee. 
If  few  lives  have  been  more  lone 
Few  have  more  rapture  known. 
Than  mine  and  thine,  my  own  ! 

When  the  lamp  burns  dim  and  dim- 
mer ; 

And  the  curtain  close  is  drawn  ; 
And  the  twilight  seems  to  glimmer 

With  a  supernatm-al  dawn  ; 
And  the  Genius  at  the  door 
Turns  the  torch  down  to  the  floor^ 
Till  the  world  is  seen  no  more  ; 

In  the  doubt,  the  dark,  the  fear, 

'Mid  the  spirits  come  to  take  thee, 
Shall  mine  to  thine  be  near. 
And  my  kiss  the  first  to  wake 
thee. 
Meanwhile,  in  life's  December, 
On  the  wind  that  strews  the  ember, 
Shall  a  voice  stili  moan  ..."  K©- 
member  I" 


IN"  FRAI^CE. 


237 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  PETER 
RONSARD. 

"  VOICILE  BOIS  QUE  MA  SAINCTE 
AXGELETTE." 

CTeke  is  the  wood  that  freshened  to 

her  song  ; 
See  here,  the  flowers  that  keep  her 

footprints  yet  ; 
Where,     all     alone,    my    saintly 

Angelette 
Went  wandering,  with  her  maiden 

thoughts,  along. 

Here  is  the  little  rivulet  where  she 
stopped ; 
And  here  the  greenness    of   the 

grass  shows  where 
She  lingered  through  it,  searching 
here  and  there 
Those    daisies  dear,   which   in  her 
breast  she  dropped. 

Here  did  she  sing,  and  here  she 

wept,  and  here 
Her  smile  came  back  ;  and  here  I 

seem  to  hear 
Those  faint  half-words  with  which 

my  thoughts  are  rife  ; 
Here  did  she  sit  ;  here,  childlike, 

did  she  dance, 
To  some  vague  impulse  of  her  own 

romance — 
A.h,   Love,   on  all    these  thoughts, 

winds  out  my  life  I 

♦'  CACHE  POUR  CETTE  NUICT." 

Hide,  for  a  night,  thy  horn,  good 
Moon  !    Fair  Fortune 
For  this  shall  keep  Endymion  ever 

prest 
Deep-dreaming,  amorous,  on  thine 
argent  breast. 
Nor  ever  shall  enchanter  thee  impor- 
tune. 

Hateful  to  me  the  day  ;  most  sweet 
the  night ! 
I  fear  the  myriad  meddling  eyes  of 


But  courage    comes   with    night. 
Close,  close,  I  pray. 
Your  curtains,  dear  dark  skies,  on 
my  delight  ! 

Thou  too,  thou  Moon,  thou  too  hast 

felt  love's  power  ! 
Pan,  with  a  white  fleece,  won  thee 

for  an  hour  ; 
And  you,  sidereal  Signs  in  yonder 

blue. 

Favor  the  fire  to  which  my  heart  is 

moved. 
Forget  not.  Signs,  the  greater  part 

^(«f  you 
Was  only  set  in  heaven  for  having 

loved  ! 


*'PAGE,SUT  mot:' 

Follow,  my  Page,  where  the  green 
grass  embosoms 
The  enamelled  Season's  freshest- 
fallen  dew  ; 
Then  home,  and  my  still  house 
with  handf uls  strew 
Of  frail-lived  April's  newliest  nur- 
tured blossoms. 

Take  from  the  wall  now,  my  song- 
tune'd  Lyre  ; 
Here  will  I  sit  and  charm  out  the 

sweet  pain 
Of  a  dark  eye  whose  light  hath 
burned  my  brain, 
The  unloving  loveliness  of  my  desire ! 

And    here    my  ink,   and    here  my 

papers,  place  : — 
A  hundred  leaves  of  white,  whereon 

to  trace 
A    hundred    words    of    desultory 

woe — 
Words  which  shall  last,  like  graven 

diamonds,  sure  ; — 
That,  some  day  hence,  a  future 

race  may  know 
And  ponder  on  the  pain  which  X 

endure. 


2^6^ 


THE  WANDERER. 


"  LES  ES PICES  SONT  A  CEEES." 

Ceres  hath  her  harvest  sweet : 
Cblora's  is  the  young  green  grass  : 

Woods  for  Fauns  with  cloven  feet : 
His  green  laurel  Phoebus  has  : 

Minerva  has  her  Olive-tree  : 

And  the  Pine's  for  Cybele. 

Sweetsounds  are  for  Zephyr's  wings  : 
Sweet  fruit  for  Pomona's  bosom  : 

For  tlie  Nymphs  are  crystal  springs 
And  for  Flora  bud  and  blossom  : 

But  sighs  and  tears,  and  sad  ideas, 

These  alone  are  Cytherea's. 

'*MA  DOUCE  JO^JVENCE." 

My  sweet  youth  now  is  all  done  ; 
The  strength   and    the   beauty  are 

gone. 
The  tooth  now  is  black,  and  the 

head  now  is  white. 
And  the  nerves  now  are  loosed  :  in 

the  veins 
Only  water  (not  blood  now)  remains, 
Where  the  pulse  beat  of  old  with 

delight. 


Adieu,  O  my  lyre,  O  adieu, 

You  sweet  women,  my  lost  loves, 

and  you 
Each  dead  passion  !  .  .  .  The  end 

creepeth  nigher. 
Not  one  pastime  of  youth  has  kept 

pace 
With  my  age.     Naught  remains  in 

their  place 
But  the  bed,  and  the  cup,  and  tho 

fire. 

My  head  is  confused  with  low  fears. 
And  sickness,  and  too  many  years 

Some  care  in  each  corner  I  meet- 
And,  wherever  I  linger  or  go, 
I  turn  back,  and  look  after,  to  know 

If  the  Death  be  still  dogging  my 
feet : — 

Dogging  me  down  the  dark  stair, 
Wliich  windeth,  I  cannot  tell  where, 

To  some  Pluto  that  opens  forever 
His  cave  to  all  comers — Alas  ! 
How  easily  down  it  all  pass, 

And   return  from  it — never,   ah, 
never  I 


BOOK    III.  — IN    ENGLAND 


THE  ALOE. 

k    STRANGEB    Sent    from    burning 

lands. 
In  realms  where  buzz  and  mutter 

yet 
Old  gods,  with  hundred  heads  and 

hands, 
On  jewelled  thrones  of  jet, — 

(Old  gods  as  old  as  Time  itself,) 
And,  in  a  hot  and  level  calm, 

Bechne  o'er  many  a  sandy  shelf 
Dusk  forms  beneath  the  palm, — 

To  Lady  Eve,  who  dwells  beside 
The    river-meads,    and   oak-trees 
taJl, 


Whose  dewy  shades  encircle  wide 
Her  old  Baronial  Hall, 

An  Indian    plant  with  leaves  like 
horn. 
And,  all  along  its  stubborn  spine, 
Mere  humps,  with  angry  spike  and 
thorn 
Armed  like  the  porcupine. 

In  midst  of  which  one  sullen  bud 
Surveyed    the    world,   with  head 
aslant, 
High-throned,  and  looking  like  the 
god 
Of  this  strange  Indian  plaai. 


iiV  ENGLAND. 


239 


A  stubborn  plant,  from  looking  cross 
It  seemed   no  kindness  could  re- 
trieve ! 

But  for  his  sake  ■v\iiose  gift  it  was 
It  pleased  the  Lady  Eve. 

She  set  it  on  the  terraced  walk, 
Within     her     own     fair    garden- 
ground  ; 

And  every  morn  and  eve  its  stalk 
Was  duly  watered  round. 

And  every  eve  and  mom,  the  while 
She  tended  this  uncourteous  thing, 

I  stood    beside    her, — watched    her 
smile, 
And  often  heard  her  sing. 

The  roses  I  at  times  would  twist 
To  deck  her  hair,  she  oft  forgot  ; 

Bnt  never  that  dark  aloe  missed 
The  daily  watering-pot. 

She  seemed  so  gay, — I  felt  so  sad. — 
Her  laugh  but  made  me  frowu  the 
more  : 

For  each  light  word  of  hers  I  had 
Some  sharp  reply  in  store. 

Until  she  laaghed  .  .  .  *'This  aloe 
shows 
A     kindlier    nature     than     your 
own"  .  .  . 
Ah,  Eve,  you  little  dreamed  what 
foes 
The  plant  and  I  had  grown  ! 

At  last,  one  summer  night,  vviien  all 
The  garden-flowers  were  dreaming 
still, 

And  still  the  old  Baronial  Hall, 
The  oak-trees  on  the  hill, 

A  loud  and  sudden  sound  there 
stirred, 

As  when  a  thimder-cloud  is  toi-n  ; 
Such  thunder-claps  are  only  heard 

When  little  gods  are  born. 

The  echo  went  from  place  to  place, 
And  wakened  every  early  sleeper. 

Some  said  that  poachers  in  the  chase 
Had  slain  a  buck — or  keeper. 


Some  hinted  burglars  at  the  door  : 
Some    questioned    if    it    had  ilot 
lightened  ; 
While  all   the   maids,  as  each  one 
swore. 
From  their  seven  wits  were  fright- 
ened. 

The  peacocks  screamed,  and  every 
rook 
Upon  the  elms  at  roost  did  caw  : 
Each  inmate  straight  the  house  for- 
sook : 
They    searched — and,    last, — they 
saw 

That  sullen  bud  to  flower  had  burst 
Upon      the     sharp  -  leaved     aloe 
there  ; — 
A  wondrous    flower,  whose    breath 
disperst 
Rich  odors  on  the  air. 

A  flower,  colossal — dazzling  white. 
And  fair  as  is  a  Sphinx's  face, 

Turned  broadly  to  the  moon  by  night 
From  some  vast  temple's  base. 

Yes,  Eve  !  your  aloe  paid  the  pains 
With  which  its  sullen  growth  you 
nurst. 

But  ah  !  my  nature  yet  remains 
As  churlish  as  at  first. 

And  yet,   and  yet — it    might    have 
proved 
Not  all  unworth  your  heart's  ap- 
proving. 
Ah,  had  I  only  been  beloved, — 
(Beloved  as  I  was  loving  !) 

I  might  have  been  .   .  .  how  much, 
how  much, 

I  am  not  now,  and  shall  not  be! 
One  gentle  look,  one  tender  touch, 

Had  done  so  much  for  me  I 

I  too,  perchance,  if  Idndly  tended. 
Had  roused  the  napping  genera- 
tion. 
With  something  novel,  strange,  and 
splendid. 
Deserving  admiration ; 


24*^ 


THE  WANDERER. 


For  all   the  while  there  grew,  and 
grew 
A    germ, — a.  bud,  within  my  bo- 
som : 
No  flower,  fair  Eve  ! — for,  thanks  to 
you, 
It  never  came  to  blossom. 

"MEDIO  DE  FONTE  LEPO- 
RUM  SURGIT  AMARI  ALI- 
QUED." 

Lucretius. 

We    walked    about    at     Hampton 
Court, 
Alone  in  sunny  weather, 
Ajid  talked — half  earnest,  and  half 
sport. 
Linked  arm  in  arm  together. 

I  pressed  her  hand  upon  the  steps. 

Its  warmest  light  the  sky  lent. 
She  sought  the  shade  ;   I  sought  her 
lips  : 

We  kissed  :  and  then  were  silent. 

Clare  thought,  no  doubt,  of  many 
things. 

Besides  the  kiss  I  stole  there  ; — 
The  sun,  in  sunny  founts  in  rings. 

The  bliss  of  soul  with  soul  there, 

The  bonnet,  fresh  from  France,  she 
wore, 

My  praise  of  how  she  wore  it, 
The  arms  above  the  carven  door, 

The  orange-trees  before  it ; — 

But  I  could  only  think,  as,  mute 
1  watched  her  happy  smile  there, 

With  rising  pain,  of  this  curst  boot, 
That    pinched    me  all  the  while 
there. 


THE  DEATH  OF  KING  HACON. 

It  was  Odin  that  whispered  in  Vin- 
golf, 
"Go  forth  to  the   heath  by  the 
sea  ; 
Till  i  Hacon  before  the  moon  rises. 
And  bid  him  to  supper  with  me," 


They  go  forth  to   choose  from  the 
Princes  j 

Of  Yngvon,  and  summons  from 
fight  i 

A  man  who  must  perish  in  battle,       I 
And  sup  where  the  gods  sup  to-  ' 
night. 

Leaning  over  her  brazen  spear,  Gon- 
dula- 
Thus    bespake    her    companions, 
"  The  feast 
Of  the  gods  shall,  in  Yingolf,  this 
evening,  • 

O  ye  Daughters  of  War,   be  in- 
creast. 

"Fop Odin  hath  beckoned  unto  me, 
For  Odin  h*  th  whispered  me  forth, 

To  bid  to  his  supper  King  Hacon 
With  thejialf  of  the  hosts  of  the 
North." 

Their  horses  gleamed  white  through 
the  vapor  : 
In   the  moonlight  their  corselets 
did  shine  : 
As  they  wavered^  and  whispered  to- 
gether. 
And  fashioned  their  solemn  de- 
sign. 

Hacon    heard    them    discoursing  — 
"  AVhy  hast  thou 
Thus  disposed    of    the    battle  so 
soon  ? 
O,  were  we  not  woi;thy  of  conquest  ? 
Lo  !    we  die  by  the  rise   of  the 
moon." 

"  It  is  not  the  moon  that  is  rising, 
But  the  glory  which    penetrates 
death. 
When  heroes  to  Odin  are  summoned ' 
Rise,   Hacon,    and  stand  on   the 
heath  ! 

"  It  is  we,"  she  replied,  "  that  have 
given 
To  thy  pasture  the  flower  of  the 
fight. 
It  is  we,  it  is  we  that  have  scattered 
Thine  enemies  yonder  in  flight. 


m  ENGLAND. 


241 


**  Come  now,   let  us  push  on   our 
horses 
Over  yonder  green  worlds  in  the 
east, 
Where  the  great  gods  are  gathered 
together, 
And  t1ie  tables  are  piled  for  the 
feast. 

"  Betimes  to  give  notice  to  Odin, 
Who  waits  in  his  sovran  abodes. 

That  the  King  to  his  palace  is  com- 
ing 
This  evening  to  visit  the  gods." 

Odin  rose  when  he  heard  it,   and 
with  him 
Rose   the  gods,   every  god  to  his 
feet. 
He  beckoned  Hermoder  and  Brago, 
They  came  to  him,  each  from  his 
seat. 

"  Go  forth,  O  my  sons,  to  King  Ha- 
con. 
And  meet  him  and  greet  him  from 
all, 
A  King  that  we  know  by  his  valor 
Is  coming  to-night  to  our  hall." 

Then     faintly     King     Hacon      ap- 
proaches, 
Arriving  from  battle,  and  sore 
With    the    wounds    that  yet  bleed 
through  his  armor 
Bedabbled  and  dripping  with  gore. 

Sis  visage  is  pallid  and  awful 
With  the  awe  and  the  pallor  of 
death, 
Like  the  moon  that  at  midnight  arises 
Where  the  battle  lies  strewn  on  the 
heath. 

To  him  spake  Hermoder  and  Brago, 
*'  We  meet  thee   and  greet   thee 
from  all, 
To  the  gods  thou  art  known  by  thy 
valor. 
And  they  bid  thee  a  gueBt  to' their 
hall. 


"Come  hither,  come  hither,   Hing 
Hacon, 
And  join  those  eight  brothers  of 
thine. 
Who  already,  awaiting  thy  coming. 
With  the  gods  in  Walhala  recline. 

"And  loosen,  O  Hacon,  thy  corselet, 
For  thy  wounds  are  yet  ghastly  to 
see. 
Go  pour  ale  in  the  circle  of  heroes. 
And  drink,  for  the  gods  drink  to 
thee." 

But  he  answered,  the  hero,  "  I  never 
Will  part  with  the  armor  I  wear. 

Shall  a  warrior  stand  before  Odin 
Unshamed,   without  helmet    and 
spear  ? " 

Black  Fenris,  the  wolf,  the  destroyer, 
Shall  arise  and  break  loose  from  his 
chain 

Before  that  a  hero  like  Hacon 
Shall  stand  in  the  battle  again. 


"CARPE  DIEM." 

HoBAOiS. 

To-MOKROW  is  a  day  too  far 
To  trust,  whate'er  the  day  be. 

We  know,  a  little,  what  we  are. 
But  who  knows  what  he  may  be  ? 

The  oak  that  on  the  mountain  grows 

A  goodly  ship  may  be, 
Next  year  ;  but  it  is  as  well  (who 
knows  ?) 

May  be  a  gallows-tree. 

'Tis  God  made  man,  no  doubt, — not 
Chance  : 

He  made  us,  great  and  small  : 
But,  being  made,  'tis  Circumstance 

That  finishes  us  all. 

The  Author  of  this  world's  great  plan 
The  same  results  will  draw 

From  human  life,  however  man 
May  keep,  or  break,  His  law 


242 


THE  WANDERER. 


The  Artist  to  his  Art  doth  look  ; 

And  Art's  great  laws  exact 
That  those   portrayed  in    Nature's 
Book, 

Should  freely  move  and  ac"^ 

The  moral  of  the  Tork  unchanged 

Endures  eternally, 
Howe'er  by  human  wills  arranged 

The  work's  details  may  be. 

"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  br 
The  morrow  shall  take  heed 

Unto  itself."  The  Master  said 
No  more.    No  more  we  need. 

To-morrow  cannot  make  or  mar 
To-day,  whate'er  the  day  be  : 

Nor  can  the  men  which  now  we  are 
Foresee  the  men  we  may  be. 

THE  FOUNT  OF  TRUTH. 

It  was  the  place  by  legends  told. 

I  read  the  tale  when  yet  a  child. 
The  castle  on  the  mountain  hold, 

The  woodland  in  the  wild. 

The  wrecks  of  unremembered  days 
Were  heaped  around.     It  was  the 
hour 
When  bold  men  fear,  and  timorous 
fays 
Grow  bold,  and  know  their  power. 

The  month  was  in  the  downward 
year. 
The  breath  of  Autumn  chilled  the 
sky: 
And  useless  leaves,  too  early  sere, 
Mut;tered  and  eddied  by. 

It  seemed  that  I  was  wending  back 
Among  the  ruins  of  my  youth, 

Along  a  wild  night -haunted  track 
To  seek  the  Fount  of  Truth. 

The  Fount  of  Truth,— tliat  wondrous 
fount  ! 
Its  solemn  sound  I  seem  to  hear 
Wind -borne     adown    the    clouded 
mount, 
Desolate,  cold,  and  clear. 


By  clews  long  lost,  and  found  again  [ 
I  know  not  how,  my  course  waa 
led 
Through  lands   remote  from 
men. 
As  life  is  from  the  dead. 

Yet  up  that  wild  road,   here   and 
there. 
Large  awful  footprints  did  I  meet;  '[ 
Footprints  of  gods  perchance  they 
were, 
Prints — not  of  human  feet.  i 

The  mandrake  underneath  my  foot  j 
Gave  forth  a  shriek  of  angry  pain. 

I  beard  the  roar  of  some  wild  brute  il 
Prowling  the  windy  plain. 

I  reached  the  gate.     I  blew   with   i 
powder 
A  blast  upon  the  darkness  wide. 
"  Who  art  thou  ?  "  from  the  gloomy   ' 
tower  j 

The  sullen  warder  cried. 

"  A  Pilgrim  to  the  Fount  of  Truth." 
He  laughed  a  laugh  of  scornful 
spleen. 
''Art  thou  not  from  the  Land  o£ 
Youth  ? 
Keport  where  thou  hast  been." 

"  The  Land  of  Youth  I    an   alien 
race 
There,     in    my    old    dominions, 
reign  ; 
And,  with  them,  one  in  whose  false 
face 
I  will  not  gaze  again. 

"  From  to  and  fro  the  world  I  come. 

Where  I  have  fared  as  exiles  fare. 
Mocked  by  the  memories  of  home 

And  homeless  everywhere. 

"  The     snake    that    slid    throuf 
Paradise 
Yet  on  my  pathway  slides    an^ 
slips  : 
The  apple  plucked  in  Eden,  twic^ 
Is  yet  upon  my  lips. 


IN  ENGLAND. 


243 


**  I  can  report  the  world  is  still 
Where  it  hath  been  since  it  began: 

And  Wisdom,  with  bewildered  will, 
Is  still  the  same  sick  man, 

"Whom  yet  the  self -same  visions 
fool. 
The  self-same  nightmares  haunt 
and  scare. 
Folly  still  breeds  the  Public  Fool, 
Knowledge  increaseth  care  : 

''  Joy  hath  his  tears,  and  Grief  her 
smile  ; 
And  still  both  tears  and  smiles  de- 
ceive. 
And  in  the  Yalley  of  the  Nile 
I  hear — and  I  believe — 

"  The    Fiend    and   Michael,   as    of 

yore, 
Yet  wage  the  ancient  war  :  but 

how 
This  strife  will  end  at  last,  is  more 
Than  our  new  sages  know." 

I  heard  the  gat    behind  me  close. 

It  closed  with  a  reluctant  wail. 
Roused  by  the  somid  from  her  re- 
pose 

Started  the  Porteress  pale  : 

In  pity,  or  in  scorn  ..."  Forbear, 
Madam,"  she   cried,    .    .    .    ''  thy 
search  for  Truth. 

The  curl  is  in  thy  careless  hair 
Return  to  Love  and  Youth. 

"What  lured  thee  here,  through  dark, 
and  doubt. 
The     many  -  perilled      prize     to 
win  ?"  — 
"  The  dearth"  ...  I  said  ...  "of 
all  without, 
The  thirst  of  all  within. 

"  Age  comes  not  with  the  wrinkled 
brow 

But  earlier,  with  the  ravaged  heart, 
Pull  oft  hath  fallen  the  winter  snow 

3ince  Love  from  me  did  part. 


"  Long  in  dry  places,  void  of  cheer, 
Long    have    I    roamed.      These 
features  scan  : 

If  magic  lore  be  thine,  look  here, 
Behold  the  Talisman! " 

I  crossed  the  court.  The  blood- 
hound bayed 

Behind  me  from  the  outer  wall. 
The  drowsy  grooms  my  call  obeyed 

And  lit  the  haunted  hall. 

They  brought  me  horse,  and  lance, 
and  helm. 
They  bound  the  buckler  on  my 
breast. 
Spread  the  weird  chart  of  that  wild 
realm, 
And  armed  me  for  the  quest. 

Uprose  the  Giant  of  the  Keep. 
"Rash    fool,   ride    on  !"  .  .  .   ] 
heard  him  say, 
"  The  night  is  late,  the  heights  are 
steep, 
And  Truth  is  far  away  1 " 

And  .  .  .  "Faraway  !"    .    .    .  the 
echoes  fell 
Behind  as,  from  that  grisly  hold 
I  turned.     No  tongue   of  man  may 
tell 
What  mine  must  leave  untold. 

The  Fount  of  Truth, — that  wondroub 
fount  ! 

Far  off  I  heard  its  waters  play. 
But  ere  I  scaled  the  solemn  mount, 

Dawn  broke.     The  trivial  day 

To  its  accustomed  course  flowed 
back, 

And  all  the  glamour  faded  round. 
Is  it  forever  lost, — that  track  ? 

Or — was  it  never  found  ? 


MIDGES. 

She   is  talking  aesthetics,  the  dear 
clever  creature  ! 
Upon  Man,  and  his  functions,  she 
speaks  with  a  smile. 


244 


THE  WANDERER. 


Her  ideas  are  divine  upon  Art,  upon 
Nature, 
The  sublime,  the  Heroic,  and  Mr. 
Carlyle. 

1  no  more  am  found  worthy  to  join 
in  the  talk,  now  \ 
So  I  follow  with  my  surreptitious 
cigar  ; 
While  she  leads  our  poetical  friend 
up  the  walk,  now. 
Who     quotes    Wordsworth     and 
praises  her  "  Thoughts  on   a 
Star.'' 

Meanwhile,    there    is    dancing    in 
yonder  green  bower 
A  swarm  of  young  midges.     They 
dance  high  and  low. 
'Tis  a  sweet  little  species  that  lives 
but  one  hour, 
And  the  eldest  was  born  half  an 
hour  ago. 

One  impulsive  young  midge  I  hear 

ardently  pouring 

In  the  ears  of  a  shy  little  wanton 

in  gauze,  [adoring  : 

His   eternal  devotion  ;  his   ceaseless 

Which  shall  last  till  the  Universe 

breaks  from  its  laws  : 

His  passion  is  not,  he  declares,  the 
mere  fever 
Of  a  rapturous  moment.    It  knows 
no  control  : 
It  will  burn  in  his  breast  through 
existence  forever, 
Immutably  fixed  in  the  deeps  of 
the  soul  ! 

She  wavers  :  she  flutters  : .  .  .  male 
midges  are  fickle  : 
Dare  she  trust  him  her  future  ?  .  .  . 
she  asks  with  a  sigh  : 
He  implores,  .  .  .  and  a  tear  is  be- 
ginning to  trickle  : 
She  is  weak  :  they  embrace,  and 
.  .  .  the  lovers  pass  by. 

While  they  pass  me,  down  here  on  a 
rose  leaf  has  lighted 
A  pale  midge,  his  feelers  all  droop- 
ing and  torn  ; 


His  existence  is  withered  ;  its  future  I 
is  blighted  :  ^    \ 

His  hopes  are  betrayed  :  and  his 
breast  is  forlorn.  ' 

By  the  midge  Ms  heart  trusted  his  ; 
heart  is  deceived,  now,  [ 

In  the  virtue  of  midges  no  more  he  ' 
believes  :  1 

From    love    in    its   falsehood,   once 
wildly  believed,  now 
He  will  bury  his  desolate  life  in 
the  leaves. 

His  friends  would  console  him  .  .  . 
the  noblest  and  sagest 
Of  midges  have  held  that  a  midge 
lives  again. 
In  Eternity,  they  say,  the  strife  thoni,' 
now  wagest  '. 

With  sorrow  shall  cease  .  .  .  but 
their  words  are  in  vain  ! 

Can  Eternity  bring  back  the  seconds  i 
now  wasted 
In  hopeless  desire  ?  or  restore  to . 
his  breast 
The  belief  he  has  lost,  with  the  bii&3^ 
he  once  tasted. 
Embracing    the    midge  that  hisi 
being  loved  best  ? 

His  friends  would  console  him  .... 
life  yet  is  before  him  ; 
Many  hundred   long    seconds  he- 
still  has  to  live  : 
In  the  state  yet  a    mighty    career i! 
spreads  before  him  :  , 

Let  him  seek  in  the  great  world  oil 
action  to  strive  ! 

There  is  Fame  !  there's  Ambition  I 
and,  grander  than  either. 
There  is  Freedon  !  ...  the  pro- 
gress    and    march     of     the 
race  !  .  .  . 
But  to  Freedom  his  breast  beats  no 
longer,  and  neither 
Ambition  nor  action  her  loss  can 
replace. 


IN  ENGLAND^ 


245 


If  the  time  had  been  spent   in  ac- 
quiring aesthetics 
I  have  squandered  in  learning  this 
language  of  midges, 
There  might,  for  my  friend  in  her 
peripatetics, 
Have  been  now  ifoo  asses  to  h<li> 
o'er  the  bridges. 

As  it  is,   .  .  .    I'll  report  her  the 
whole  conversation. 
It  would  have  been  longer  ;  but, 
somehow  or  other 
(In  the  midst  of  that  misanthrope's 
long  lamentation), 
A  midge  in  my  right  eye  became  a 
young  mother. 

Since  my  friend  is  so  clever,  I'll  asic 
her  to  tell  me 
Why  the  least  living  thing  (a  mere 
midge  in  the  egg  !) 
Can  make  a  man's  tears  flow,  as  now 
it  befell  me  .  .  . 
O  you  dear  clever  woman,  explain 
it,  I  beg  I 


THE  LAST  TIME  THAT  I  MET 
LADY  RUTH. 

There    are    some    things  hard  to 
understand. 
O  help  me,  my  God,  to  trust  in 
thee  ! 
But   I  never    shall  forget  her  soft 
white  hand, 
And  her  eyes  when  she  looked  at 
me. 

It  is  hard  to  pray  the  very  same 
prayer 
Which  once   at  our  mother's  knee 
we  prayed — 
When,  where  we  trusted  our  whole 
heart,  there 
Our  trust  hath  been  betrayed. 

I  swear  that  the  milk-white  muslin 
so  light 
On  her  virgin  breast,  where  it  lay 
demme. 


Seemed  to    be    toucht   to  a  purer 
white 
By  the  touch  of  a  breast  so  pure. 

I  deemed  her  the    one  thing    un- 
defiled 
By  the  air  we  breathe,  in  a  world 
of  sin  : 
The    truest,   the    tenderest,   purest 
child 
A  man  ever  trusted  in  ! 

Wli'Mi  she  blamed  me  (she,  with  her 
fair  child's  face  !) 
That  never  with  her  to  the  Church 
I  went 
To   partake  of  the  Gospel  of  truth 
and  grace, 
And  the  Christian  sacrament, 

And  I   snid  I  would  go  for  her  own 
sweet  sake. 
Though  it  was  but  herself  I  should 
worship  there, 
How  that  happy  child's  face  strove 
to  take 
On  its  dimples  a  serious  air  I 

I  remember  the  chair  she  would  set 
for  me, 
By  the  flowers  when  all  the  house 
was  gone 
To  drive  in  the  Park,  and  I  and  she 
Were  left  to  be  happy  alone. 

There  she  leaned  her  head   on  my 
knees,  my  Ruth, 
With   the  primrose  loose  in  hei 
half-closed  hands  : 
And  I  told  her  tales  of  my  wander 
ing  youth 
In  the  far  fair  foreign  lands. — 

The  last  time  I  met  her  was  here  :n 
town, 
At  a  fancy  ball  at  the  Duchess  of 
D., 
On  the   stairs,  where  her  husband 
was  handing  her  down. 
— There  we  met,  and  she    talked 
to  me. 


546 


THE  WANDERER. 


She,  with  powder  in  hair,  and  patch 
on  chin, 
And  I,  in  the  garb  of  a  pilgrim 
Priest, 
And  between  us  both,  without  and 
within, 
A  hundred  years  at  least  ! 

We  talked  of  the  House,  and  the  late 
long  rains. 
And  the  crush  at  the  French  Am- 
bassador's ball. 
And  .   .  .  well,  I  have  not  blown 
out  my  brains. 
You  see  I  can  laugh.     That  is  all. 

MATRIMOmAL  COUNSELS. 

you  are  going  to  marry  my  pretty 
relation. 
My  dove-like  young  cousin,  so  soft 
in  the  eyes, 
You  are  entering  on  life's  settled 
dissimulation, 
And,  if  you'd  be  happy,  in  season 
be  wise. 

Take  my  counsel.     The  more  that, 
in  church,  you  are  tempted 
To  yawn  at  the  sermon,  the  more 
you'll  attend. 
The  more  you'd  from  milliner's  bills 
be  exempted. 
The  more  on  your  wife's    little 
wishes  you'll  spend. 

You'll  be  sure,  every  Christmas,  to 
send  to  the  rector 
A  dozen  of  wine,  and  a  hamper  or 
two. 
The  more   your  wife  plag^aes  you, 
the  more  you'll  respect  her. 
She'll  be  pleasing  your  friend,  if 
she's  not  plaguing  you. 

For  women  of  course,  like  ourselves, 
need  emotion  ; 
And    happy  the  husband,  whose 
failings  afford 
To  the  wife  of  his  heart,  such  good 
cause  for  commotion 
That  she  seeks  no  excitement,  save 
plaguing  her  lord. 


Above    all,  you'll  be    careful  that  j 

nothing  offends,  too,' 

Your  wife's  lady's  maid,  though  J 

she  give  herself  airs.  '  i 

With  the  friend  of  a  friend  it  is  well  > 

to  be  friends  too,  \ 

And    especially    so,    when    that  ; 

friend  lives  up  stairs.  | 

Under    no  provocation  you'll  ever  ! 
avow  yourself 
A  little  put  out,  when  you're  kept 
at  the  door,  i 

And  you  never,  I  scarcely  need  say,  i 
will  allow  yourself  I 

To  call  your  wife's  mother  a  vulgar 
eld  bore.  j 

However  she  dresses,  you'll  never'- 1| 
suggest  to  her  ' 

That  her  taste,  as  to  colors,  could 
scarcely  be  worse. 
Of  the  rooms  in  your  house,  you  will  ll 
give  up  the  best  to  her, 
And  you  never  will  ask  for  the; 


If,  at  times  with  a  doubt  on  the  souli! 
and  her  future. 
Revelation  and  reason,  existence  \ 
should  trouble  you. 
You'll  be  always  on  guard  to  keep  i 
carefully  mute  yoiu- 
Ideas    on    the  subject,  and  read! 
Dr.  W. 

Bring  a  shawl  with  you,  home,  when  i 
you  come  from  the  club,  sir, 
Or  a  ring,  least  your  wife,  whenj 
you  meet  her,  should  pout  ; 
And  don't  fly  in  a  rage  and  behave 
like  a  cub,  sir. 
If  you  find  that  the  fire,  like  yoi^r-  • 
self,  has  gone  out. 

In  eleven  good  instances  out  of  a »' 
dozen, 

'Tis  the  husband's  a  cur,  when  the  ij 
wife  is  a  cat. 
She  is  meekness  itself,  my  soft-eyed 
litte  cousin, 
But  a  wife  has  her  rights,  and  I'd  i 
have  you  know  that. 


IN  ENGLAND. 


247 


Keep  my  counsel.     Life's  straggles 
are  brief  to  be  borne,  friend. 
In  Heaven  there's  no  marriage  nor 
giving  in  marriage. 
When    Death    comes,    think    how 
truly  your  widow  will  mourn, 
friend, 
And  your  worth  not  the  best  of 
your  friends  will  disparage  I 


SEE-SAW. 

She  was  a  harlot,  and  I  was  a  thief; 
But  we    loved  each    other  beyond 

belief  : 
She  lived  in  the  garret,  and  I  in  the 

kitchen. 
And  love  was  all  that  we  both  were 

rich  in. 

When  they  sent  her  at  last  to  the 
hospital. 

Both  day  and  night  my  tears  did  fall ; 

They  fell  so  fast  that,  to  dry  their 
grief, 

I  borrowed  my  neighbor's  handker- 
chief. 

The  world,  which,  as  it  is  brutally 

taught, 
Still  judges  the  act  in  lieu  of  the 

thought, 
Found  my  hand  in  my  neighbor's 

pocket. 
And  clapped  me,  at  once,  under  chain 

and  locket. 

When  they  asked  me  about  it,  I  told 

them  plain. 
Love  it  was   that    had  turned  my 

brain  : 
How  should  I  heed  where  my  hand 

had  been, 
When  my  heart  was   dreaming  of 

Celestinc  ? 

Twelve  friends  were  so  struck  by  my 

woful  air, 
That  they  sent  me  abroad  for  change 

o£  air ; 


And,  to  prove  me  the  kindness  of 
their  intent, 

They  sent  me  at  charge  of  the  Gov- 
ernment. 

When  I  came  back  again, — whom, 

think  you,  I  meet 
But    Celestine,     here,    in    Regent 

Street  ? 
In  a  carriage  adorned  with  a  coronet, 
And  a  dress,  all  flounces,  and  lace. 

and  jet : 

For  her  carriage  drew  up  to  the 
bookseller's  door, 

Where  they  publish  those  nice  little 
books  for  the  poor  : 

I  took  off  my  hat :  and  my  face  she 
knew. 

And  gave  me — a  sermon  by  Mr.  Bel- 
lew. 

But  she  gave  me  (God  bless  her  I) 

along  with  the  book, 
Such  a  sweet  sort  of  smile,  such  a 

heavenly  look. 
That,  as  long  as  I  live,  I  shall  never 

forget 
Celestine,  in  her  coach  with  the  earl's 

coronet. 

There's  a  game  that  men  play  at  in 

great  London-town  ; 
Whereby  some  must  go  up,  sir,  and 

some  must  go  down  : 
And,  since  the  mud  sticks  to  your 

coat  if  you  fall. 
Why,  the  strongest  among  us  keep 

close  to  the  wall. 

But  some  day,  soon  or  late,  in  my 

shoes  I  shall  stand. 
More  exalted  than  any  great  Duke 

in  the  land  ; 
A  clean  shirt  on  my  back,  and  a  rose 

in  my  coat. 
And  a  collar  conferred  by  the  Queen 

round  my  throat. 

And  I  know  that  my  Celestine  will 

not  forget 
To  be  there,  in  her  coach  with  my 

lord' 3  corouet : 


248 


THE    WANDERER. 


She  will  smile  to  me  then,  as  she 

smiled  to  me  now  : 
I  shall  nod  to  her  gayly,  and  make 

her  my  bow  ; — 

Before  I  rejoin  all  those  famous  old 

thieves 
Whose    deeds     have    immortalized 

Rome,  sir,  and  Greece  : 
Whose  names    are    inscribed  upon 

History's  leaves, 
Like  my  own  on  the  books  of  the 

City  Police  :— 

Alexander,  and  Caesar,  and  other 
great  robbers, 

Who  once  tried  to  pocket  the  whole 
universe  : 

Not  to  speak  of  our  own  parliament- 
ary jobbers, 

With  their  hands,  bless  them  all,  in 
the  popular  purse  ! 


BABYLON" 

Enough  of  simpering  and  grimace  ! 
Enough  of  damning  one's  soul  for 
nothing  ! 
Enough  of   Vacuity  trimmed    with 
lace  ! 
And  Poverty  proud  of  her  purple 
clothing  ! 
In  Babylon,  whene'er  there's  a  wind 
(Whether  it  blow  rain,  or  whether 
it  blow  sand). 
The    weathercocks     change     their 
mighty  mind  ; 
And  the  weathercocks   are  forty 
thousand. 
Forty  thousand  weathercocks, 
Each    well-minded    to    keep    his 
place, 
Turning  about  in  the  great  and 
small  ways  ! 
Each  knows,  whatever  the  weather's 
shocks, 
That  the  wind  will  never  blow  in 
his  face  ; 
And  in  Babylon  the  wind  blows 
always. 


I  cannot  tell  how  it  may  strike  you, 
But  it  strikes  me  now,  for  the  first 
and  last  time. 
That  there  may  be  better  things  to  do, 
Than  watching  the  weathercocks 
for  pastime. 
And  I  wish  I  were  out  of  Babylon, 

Out  of  sight  of  column  and  steeple, 
Out  of  fashion  and  form,  for  one, 
And    out    of    the    midst   of    this 
double-faced  people. 
Enough  of  catgut !    Enough  of  the 

sight 
Of  the  dolls  it  sets  dancing  all  the 
night  ! 
For  there  is  a  notion  come  to  me, 
As  here,  in  Babylon,  I  am  lying. 
That  far  away,  over  the  sea. 
And  under  another  moon  and 
star, 
Braver,  more  beautiful  beings  are 

dying 
(Dying,  not  dancing,  dying,  dying  !) 
To  a  music  nobler  far. 

Full  well  I  know  that,  before  it  came 
To    inhabit    this    feeble,    faltering 
frame. 
My  soul  was  weary  ;    and,   ever 
since  then, 
It  has  seemed  to  me,  in  the  stir 
and  bustle 
Of  this  eager  world  of  women  and 
men, 
That  my  life  was    tired   before  it 

began, 
That  even  the  child  had  fatigued  the 
man, 
And  brain  and  heart  have  done 
their  part 
To  wear  out  sinew  and  muscle. 

Yet,  sometimes,  a  wish  has  come  to 

me, 
To  wander,  wander,  I  know  not 

where, 
Out  of  the  sight  of  all  that  I  see, 
Out  of  the  hearing  of  all  that  I 

hear  ; 
Where  only  the  tawny,  bold,  wild 

bfast 
Koams  his  realms  ;  and  find,  at  least. 


IN  ENGLAND. 


249 


The  strength  which  even  the  beast 
finds  there, 
A  joy,  though  but  a  savage  joy  ; — 
Were  it  only  to  find  the  food  I 
need, 
The  scent  to  track,  and  the  force  to 
destroy, 
And  the  very  appetite  to  feed  ; 
The  bhss  of  the  sense  without  tho 

thought, 
And  the  freedom,  for  once  in  my 
life,  from  aught 
That  fills  my  lifewith  care. 

And    never    this    thought    hath  so 
wildly  crost 
My    mind,     with    its    wildering, 
strange  temptation, 
As  just  when  1  was   enjoying  the 
most 
The  blessings  of    what  is  called 
Civilization  : — 
The  glossy  boot  which  tightens  the 
foot ; 
The  club  at  which  my  friend  Mas 
black-balled 
(I  am  sorry,  of  course,  but  one 
must  be  exclusive)  ; 
The  yellow  kid  glove  whose  shape  I 
approve. 
And  the  joiu-ual  in  which  I  am 
kindly  called 
Whatever' s    not  libellous — only 
abusive  : 
The^ball  to  which  I  am  careful  to  go, 
Where  the  folks  are  so  cool,  and 

the  rooms  are  so  hot  ; 
The  opera,  Miiich  shows  one  what 
music — is  not  ; 
And  the  simper  from  Lady  .  .  .  but 
why  should  you  know  ? 

Yet,  I  am  a  part  of  the  things  I  de- 
spise. 
Since  my  life  is  bound  by  their 
common  span  : 
And  each  idler  I  meet,  in  square 
or  in  street. 
Hath  within  him  what    all    that's 
without  him  belies, — 
The  miraculous,  infinite  heart  of 
man, 


With  its  countless  capabilities  ! 
The  sleekest  guest   at  the  general 
feast, 
That  at  every  sip,  as  he  sups,  says 
grace, 
Hath  in  him  a  touch  of  the  untamed 
beast ; 
And  change  of  nature  is  change  of 
place. 
The  judge  on  the  bench,  and  tho 
scamp  at  the  dock. 
Have,  in  each  of  them,  much  that 
is  common  to  both  ; 
Each  is  part  of  the  parent  stock. 
And  their  difference  comes  of  their 
different  cloth. 

'Twixt  the  Seven  Dials  and  Exeter 
Hall 
The  gulf  that  is  fixed  is  not  so 
wide  : 
And  the  fool  that,  last  year,  at  Her 
Maj 'Sty's  Ball, 
Sickened  me  so  with  his  simper  of 
pride, 
Is  the  hero  now  heard  of,  the  first  on 
the  wall. 
With  the    bayonet-wound   in   his 
side. 

O,  for  the  titnes  which  were  (if  any 
Time  be  heroic)  heroic  indeed  ! 
When  the  men  were  few, 
And  the  deeds  to  do 
Were  mighty,  and  many, 
And  each  man  in  his  hand  held 
a  noble  deed. 
Now  the  deeds  are  few. 
And  the  men  are  many, 
And  each  man  has,  at  most,  but 
a  noble  need. 

Blind  fool  !  .  .  .  I  know  that  all  acted 
time 
By  that  which  succeeds  it,  is  ever 
received 
As  calmer,  completer,  and  more  sub- 
lime, 
Only  because  it  is  finished  :  be- 
cause 
We    only    behold    the    thing    it 
achieved  : 


2SO 


THE  WANDERER. 


We  behold  not  the  thing  that  it 
was. 
For,  while  it  stands  whole  and  im- 
mutable, 
In"  tlie   marble    of    memory — we, 
who  have  seen 
But  the  statue  before  us, — ^how  can 
we  tell 
What  the  men  that  have  hewn  at 
the  block  may  have  been  ? 
Their  passion  is  merged  in  its  pas- 
sionlessness  ; 
Their  strife  in  its  stillness  closed 
forever  : 
Their  change    upon  change  in  its 
changelessness  ; 
In  its  final  achievement,  their  fe- 
verish endeavor : 
Who  knows  how  sculptor  on  sculptor 

starved 
With  the  thought  in  the  head  by  the 

hand  uncarved  ? 
And  he  that  spread  out  in  its  ample 
repose  [brow, 

That    grand,    indifferent,   godlike 
How  vainly  his  own  may  have  ached, 
who  knows, 
'Twixt  the  laurel  above  and  the 
wrinkle  below  ? 

So  again  to  Babylon  I  come  back. 
Where  this  fettered  giant  of  Hu- 
man Nature 
Cramped  in  limb,  and  constrained 
in  stature. 
In  the  torture-chamber  of  Van- 
ity lies  ; 
Helpless  and  weak,  and  compelled  to 
speak 
The  things  he  must  despise. 
You  stars,  so  still  in  the  midnight 

blue, 
Which  over  these  huddling  roofs  I 
view, 
Out  of  reach  of  this  Babylonian 

riot, — 
We  so  restless,  and  you  so  quiet, 
What  is  difference  'I wixt  us  and  you  ? 

Fou  each  may  have  pined  with  a 
pain  divine. 
For  aught  1  know, 


As  wildly  as  this  weak  heart  of  mine, 

In  an  Age  ago  : 
For  whence  should  you  have  that 

stern  repose, 
Which,  here,  dwells  but  on  the  brows    ' 

of  those 
Wlio  have  lived,  and  survived  life's   •' 

fever,  I 

Had  you  never  known  the  ravage   i 

and  fire 
Of  that  inexpressible  Desire, 
Which  wastes  and  calcines  whatever 

is  less  ' 

In  the  soul,  than  the  soul's  deep  con-    ,' 

sciousness  ! 

Of  a  life  that  shall  last  forever  ? 

Doubtless,     doubtless,     again     and    ' 
again, 
Many  a  mouth    has    starved   for    i 
bread  ' 

In   a  city  whose    wharves    are    i 
choked  with  corn 
And  many  a  heart  hath  perished 
dead 
From  being  too  utterly  forlorn, 
In  a  city  whose  streets  are  choked 

with  men. 
Yet  the  bread  is  there,  could  one  find 

it  out : 
And  lliere  is  a  heart  for  a  heart,  no 
doubt, 
^Vlierever    a   human    heart   may 
beat  ; 
And  room  for  coiu-age,  and  truth, 

and  love. 
To  move,  wherever  a  man  may  move, 
In  the  thickliest  crowded  street. 

O  Lord  of  the  soul  of  man,  whose 

will 
Made  earth  for  man,  and  man  for 

heaven, 
Help  all  thy  creatures  to  fulfil 

The  hopes  to  each  one  given  ! 
So  fair  thou  mad  est,  and  so  complete, 
The  little  daisies  at  our  feet ;  , 

So  sound,  and  so  robust  in  heart. 
The  patient  beasts,  that  bear  their 

part 
In  this  world's  labor,  never  asking 
The  reason  of  its  ceaseless  tasking ; 


IN  SWITZERLAND. 


251 


Ilt^^t  thou  made  man,  though  more 

in  kind, 
By  reason  of  bis  soul  and  mind, 
Yet  less  in  unison  with  life, 
By  reason  of  an  in  ward  strife, 
Than  these,  thy  simpler  creatures, 

are, 
Submitted  to  his  use  and  care  ? 

For  these,  indeed,  appear  to  live 
To  the  full  verge  of    their  own 
power, 
Nor  ever  need  that  time  sTiould  give 
To  life  one  space  beyond  the  hour. 
They  do  not  pine  for  what  is  not  ; 
Nor  quarrel  with  the  things  which 
are  ; 
Their  yesterdays  are  all  forgot  ; 
Their  morrows  are  not  feared  from 
far  : 
They  do  not  weep,  and  wail,  and 
moan, 
For  what  is  past,  or  what's  to  be. 
Or  what's  not  yet,  and  may  be 
never  ; 
They  do  not  their  own  lives  disown, 
Nor  liaggle  with  eternity 
'Sox  some  unknown  Forever. 


Ah  yet. — in  this  must  I  believe 
That  man  is  nobler  than  the  rest : — 
That,  looking  in  on  his  own  breast, 
He  measures  thus  his  strength 

and  size 
With  supernatural  destinies, 
Whose  shades   o'er  all  hie 
being  fall  ; 
And,  in  that  dread  comparison 
'Twixt  what  is  deemed  and  what 
is  done, 
He  can,  at  intervals,  perceive 

How  weak  he  is,  and  small, 


Thor  fore,  he  knows  himself  a  child, 
S-^'t  in  this  rudimental  star. 
To  learn  the  alphabet  of  Being  ; 
By  straws  dismayed,  by  toys  beguiled, 
Yet  conscious  of  a  home  afar  ; 

With  all  these  things  here  but  ill 
agreeing, 
Because    he    trusts,   in    manhood's 

prime. 
To  walk  in  some  celestial  clime  ; 
Sit  in  his  Father's  house  ;  and  be 
The  inmate  of  Eternity. 


BOOK    IV.  — IN    SWITZERLAND. 


THE  HEART  AND  NATURE. 

The  lake  is  calm  ;  and,  calm,  the 
skies 
In  yonder  silent  sunset  glow, 
Where,   o'er  the  woodland,   home- 
ward flies 
The  solitary  crow  ; 

The  woodman  to  his  hut  is  gone  ; 

The  wood-dove  in  the  elm  is  still  ; 
The  last  sheep  drinks,  and  wanders 
on 

To  graze  at  wall. 

Nor    aught    the    pensive    prospect 

breaks,  [grass, 

Save  where  my  slow  feet  stir  the 


Or  where    the    trout   to  diamonda 
breaks 
The  lake's  pale  glass. 

No  moan  the  cushat  makes,  to  heave 
A  leaflet  round  her  windless  nest ; 

The  air  is  silent  in  the  eve  ; 
The  w^orld's  at  rest. 

All  bright  below  ;  all  calm  above  ; 

No  sense  of  pain,  no  sign  of  wrong 
Save  in  thy  heart  of  hopeless  love, 

Poor  child  of  Song  I 

Why  must  the  soul  through  Nature 
rove, 
At  variance  with  her  general  pliua  ? 


2e;2 


THB  IVANDERER. 


A  stranger  to  the  Power,  whose  love 
Soothes  all  save  Man  ? 


Why  lack  the  strength  of  meaner 
creatures  ? 
The  wandering  sheep,  the  grazing 
kine. 
Are  surer  of  their  simple  natures 
Than  I  of  mine. 

For  all  their  wants  the  poorest  land 
Affords  supply  ;  they  browse  and 
breed  ; 

I  scarce  divine,  and  ne'er  have  found, 
What  most  I  need. 

O  God,  that  in  this  human  heart 
Hath  made  Belief  so  hard  to  grow. 

And   set  the  doubt,  the  pang,  the 
smart 
In  all  we  know — 

Wliy  hast  thou,  too,  in  solemn  jest 
At  this  tormented  tliin king-power. 

Inscribed,  in  flame  on  yonder  West, 
In  hues  on  every  flower. 

Through    all    the    vast    unthinking 
sphere 

Of  mere  material  Force  without, 
Rebuke  so  vehement  and  severe 

To  the  least  doubt  ? 

And  robed  the  world  and  hung  the 
night. 
With    silent,    stern,    and    solemn 
forms  ; 
And  strown  with  sounds  of  awe  and 
might. 
The  seas  and  storms,— 

All  lacking  power  to  impart 
To  man  the  secret  he  assails, 

But  armed  to  crush  him,  if  his  heart 
Once  doubts  or  fails  ! 

To  make  him  feel  the  same  forlorn 
Despair  the  Fiend  hath  felt  ere 
now, 

In  gazing  at  the  stern  sweet  scorn 
On  MichaeFs  brow. 


A  QUIET  MOMENT. 

Stay    with    me.   Lady,  while    you 
may  ! 
P'or  life's  so  sad, — this  hour'f  so 
sweet  ; 
Ah.  liady, — life  too  long  will  stay  ; 
Too  soon  this  hour  will  fleet. 

How    fair  this    mountain's    purple 

bust. 

Alone  in  high  and  glimmering  air! 

And  see,  .  .  .  those  village   spires, 

upthrust 

From  yon  dark  plain, — how  fair  ! 

How  sweet  yon  lone  and  lovely  scone. 
And  yonder  dropping  fiery  ball. 

And  eve's  sweet  spirit,  that  steals, 
unseen, 
With  darkness  over  all  I 

This  blessed  hour  is  yours,  and 
eve's  ; 

And  this  is  why  it  seems  so  sweet 
To  lie,  as  husht  as  fallen  leaves 

In  autumn,  at  your  feet  ; 

And  watch,  awhile  released  from 
care. 

The  twilight  in  yon  quiet  skies, 
The  twilight  in  your  (juiet  hair, 

The  twilight  in  your  eyes  : 

Till  in  my  soul  the  twilight  stays, 
— Eve's  twilight,  since  the  dawn's 
is  o'er  ! 
And  life's  too  well-known  worthless 
days 
Become  unknown  once  more. 

Your  face  is  no  uncommon  face  ; 

Like  it,  1  have  seen  many  a  one, 
And  may  again,  before  my  race 

Of  care  be  wholly  run. 

But    not    the    less,    those    earnest 
brows. 
And    tha.   pure  oval   cheek   can 
charm  ; — 
Those  eyet  of  tender  deep  repose  : 
That  breast,  the  heart  keeps  warm 


IN  SWITZERLAND. 


253 


Because  a  sense  of  goodness  sleeps 
In  every  sober,  soft,  brown  tress, 

That  o'er  those  brows,  uncared  for, 
keeps 
Its  shadowT"  quietness  : 

Because  that  lip's  soft  silence  shows, 
Though    passion    it    hath    never 
known, 
That    well,    to    kiss    one    kiss,    it 
knows — 
—A  woman's  holiest  one  ! 

Yours  is  the  charm  of  calm  good 
sense, 
Of  wholesome  views  of  earth  and 
heaven, 
Of  pity,  touched  with  reverence. 
To  all  things  freely  given. 

Four  face  no  sleepless  midnight  fills. 
For  all  its  serious  sweet  endeavor; 

It  plants  no  pang,  no  rapture  thrills. 
But  ah  I — it  pleases  ever  ! 

Not  yours  is  Cleopatra's  eye. 
And  Juliet's  tears  you  never  knew: 

Never  will  amorous  Antony 
Kiss  kingdoms  out  for  you  ! 

Never  for  you  will  Romeo's  love, 
From  deeps   of  moonlit  musing, 
break 
To  poetry  about  the  glove 
Whose    touch    may    press    your 
cheek. 

But  ah,  in  one, — no  Antony 
Nor    Romeo    now,    nor    like    to 
these, — 

(Whom  neither  Cleopatra's  eye, 
Nor  Juliet's  tears,  could  please) 

How  well  they  lull  the  lurking  care 
Which  else  within  the  mind  en- 
dures,— 
That  soft  white  hand,  that  soft  dark 
hair, 
And  that  soft  voice  of  yours  1 

So,  while  you  stand,  a  fragile  form. 
With  that  close  shawl  around  you 
drawn. 

And  eve's  last  ardors  fading  warm 
Adown  the  mountain  lawn, 


'Tis  sweet,  although  we  part  to-mor- 
row, 
And  ne'er,  the  same,  shall  meet 
again. 
Awhile,  from  old  habitual  sorrow 
To  cease  ;  to  cease  from  pain  ; 

To  feel  that,  ages  past,  the  soul 
Hath  lived — and  ages  hence  will 
live  ; 
And  taste,  in  hours  like  this,  the 
whole 
Of  all  the  years  can  give. 

Then,  Lady,  yet  one  moment  stay. 
While  your  sweet  face  makes  all 
things  sweet. 

For  ah,  the  charm  will  pass  away 
Before  again  we  meet  ! 

NJENI^. 

Soft,  soft  Oe  thy  sleep  in  the  land  of 

the  West, 
Fated  maiden  I 
Fair  lie  the  flowers,  love,  and  light, 
on  thy  breast 
Passion-laden, 
In  the  place  where  thou  art,  by  the 
storm-beaten  strand 
Of  the  moaning  Atlantic, 
WTiile,  alone  with  my  sorrow,  I  roam 
through  thy  laud, 
The  beloved,  the  romantic  ! 
And  thy  faults,  child,  sleep  where  in 
those  dark  eyes  Death  closes 
All  their  doings  and  undoings  ; 
For  who  counts  the  thorns  on  last 
year's  perisht  roses  ? 
Smile,  dead  rose,  in  thy  ruins  ! 
With  thy  beauty,  its  frailty  is  over. 
No  token 
Of  all  which  thou  wast  ! 
Not  so  much  as  the  stem  whence  the 
blossom  was  broken 
Hath  been  spared  by  the  frost. 
With  thy  lips,  and  thine  eyes,  and 
thy  long  golden  tresses. 
Cold  .  .  .  and  so  young  too  ! 
All  lost,  like  the   sweetness  whioij 
died  with  our  kisses, 


2S4 


THE  WANDERER, 


On  the  lips  we  once  clung  to. 
Be  it  so  !  O  too  loved,  and  too  lovely, 
to  linger 
Where  Age  in  its  bareness 
Creeps   slowly,  and   Time  v/ith  his 
terrible  finger 
Effaces  all  fairness. 
Thy  being  was  but  beauty,  thy  life 
only  rapture, 
And,  ere  both  were  over, 
Or  yet  one  delight  had  escaped  from 
thy  capture, 
Death  came,— thy  last  lover. 
And  found  thee,  .  .  .  no  care  on  thy 
brow,  in  thy  tresses 
No  silver — all  gold  there  ! 
On  thy  lips,  when  he  kissed  them, 
their  last  human  kisses 
Had  scarcely  grown  cold  there. 
Thine  was  only  earth's  joy,  not  its 
sorrow,  its  sinning. 
Its  friends  that  are  foes  too. 
O,  fair  was  thy  life  in  its  lovely  begin- 
ning, 
And  fair  in  its  close  too  ! 
But  I  ?  .  .  .  since  w^e  parted,  both 
mournful  and  many 
Life's  changes  have  been  to  me: 
And  of  all  the  love-garlands  Youth 
wove  me,  not  any 
Remain  that  are  green  to  me. 
O,  where  are  the  nights,  with  thy 
touch  and  thy  breath  in  them. 
Faint  with  heart-beating  ? 
The  fragrance,  the  darkness,  the  life 
and  the  death  in  them, 
—Parting  and  meeting  ? 
Ail  the  world  ours  in  that  hour  1 .  .  . 
O,  the  silence. 
The  moonlight,  and,  far  in  it, 
O,  the  one  nightingale  singing  a  mile 
hence  !  [it  ! 

The  oped  window — one  star  in 
Sole   witness    of   stolen   sweet  mo- 
ments, unguest  of 
By  the  world  in  its  primness  ; — 
Just  one  smile  to  adore  by  the  star- 
light :  the  rest  of 
Thy  soul  in  the  dimness  ! 
If  I  glide  through  the  door  of  thy 
chamber,  and  sit  there, 


The  old,  faint,  uncertain 
Fragrance,  that  followed  thee,  surely 
will  flit  there, — 
O'er    the   chairs, — in    the    cur- 
tain : — 
But  thou  ?  .  .  .  O  thou  missed,  and 
thou  mourned  one  I  O  never, 
Nevermore,  shall  we  rove 
Through  chamber,  or  garden,  or  by 
the  dark  river 
Soft  lamps  burn  above  I 

0  dead,  child,  dead,  dead — all  the 

shrunken  romance 
Of  the  dream  life  begun  with  I 
But  thou,  love,  canst  alter  no  more — 
smile  or  glance  ; 
Thy  last  change  is  done  with. 
As  a  moon  that  is  sunken,  a  sunset' 
that's  o'er. 
So  thy  face  keeps  the  semblance 
Of  the  last  look  of  love,  the  last  grace 
that  it  wore, 
In  my  mourning  remembrance. 
As  a  strain  from  the  last  of  thy  songs, 
when  we  jsarted. 
Whose  echoes  thrill  yet. 
Through  the  long  dreamless  nighta 
of  sad  years,  lonely-hearted, 
With  their  haunting  regret, — 
Though  nerveless  the  hand  now,  and 
shattered  the  lute  too, 
Once  vocal  for  me. 
There  floats    through    life's   ruins, 
when  all's  dai-k  and  mute  too. 
The  music  of  thee  ! 
Beauty,  how  brief  !    Life,  how  long  ,' 
.  .  .  well,  love's  done  now  I 
Down  the  path  fate  arranged  for 
me 

1  tread  faster,  because  I  must  tread 

it  alone  now. 
— This  is  all  that  is  changed  foi 

me. 
My  heart  must  have  broken,  ere  I 

broke  the  fetter 
Thyself  didst  undo,  love. 
-Ah,   there's   many  a   purer,   and 

many  a  better. 
But  more  loved,  .  ,  .  O,  how  few, 

love  1 


IN  HOLLAND, 


255 


BOOK    v.  — IN    HOLLAND 


AUTUMN. 

So  now,  then,  Summer's   over — by 
degrees. 
Hark  !  'tis  the  wind  in  yon  red 
region  grieves. 
Who  says  the  world  grows  bet- 
ter, growing  old  ? 
See  !  what  poor  trumpery  on  those 
pauper  trees, 
That  cannot  keep,  for  all  their  fine 
gold  leaves. 
Their  last  bird  from  the  cold. 

This    is    Dame    Nature,    puckered, 
pinched,  and  sour, 
Of    all    the     charms    her    poets 
praised,  bereft, 
Scowling  and  scolding  (only  hear 
her,  there  !) 
Like  that  old  spiteful  Queen,  in  her 
last  hour. 
Whom  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  sung 
to  .  .  .  nothing  left 
But  wrinkles  and  red  hair  I 


LEAFLESS  HOURS. 

The  pale  sun,  through  the  spectral 
wood, 

Gleams  sparely,  where  I  pass  : 
My  footstep,  silent  as  my  mood. 

Falls  in  the  silent  grass. 
Only  my  shadow  points  before  me, 

Where  I  am  moving  now  : 
Only  sad  memories  murmur  o'er  me 

From  eveiy  leafless  bough  : 
And  out  of  the  nest  of  last  year's 
Kedbreast 

Is  stolen  the  very  snow. 

OX   MY    TWENTY -FOURTH 
YEAR. 


the 


Thk 


night's    in    November  : 
winds  are  at  strife  : 
'^  TJie  snow's  on  the  hill,  and  the  ice 
on  the  mere ; 


The  world  to  its  winter  is  turned 
and  my  life 
To  its  twenty-fourth  year. 

The  swallows  are  flown  to  the  south 
long  ago  : 
The  roses  are  fallen  :  the  wood- 
land is  sere. 
Hope's  flown  with    the    swallows : 
Love's  rose  will  not  grow 
In  my  twenty-fom-th  year. 

The  snow  on  the  threshold  :  the  cold 
at  the  heart : 
But  the  fagot  to  warm,  and  the 
wine-cup  to  cheer  : 
God's  help  to  look  up  to  :  and  cour- 
age to  start 
On  my  twenty-fom-th  year. 

And  'tis  well  that  the  month  of  the 
roses  is  o'er  ! 
The    last,   which    I    plucked    foi 
Nersea  to  wear, 
She  gave  her   new  lover.     A  man 
should  do  more 
With  his  twenty-fourth  year 

Than  mom-n  for  a  woman,  because 
she's  unkind, 
Or  pine  for  a  woman,  because  she 
is  fair. 
Ah,  I  loved"  you,  Nersea  !    But  now 
.  .  .  never  mind, 
'Tis  my  twenty-fomlh  year  ! 

Wliat  a  thing  !  to  have  done  with 
the  follies  of  Youth, 
Ere  Age  brings  its  follies  !  .  .  . 
though  many  a  tear 
It  should  cost,  to  see  Love  fly  away, 
and  find  Truth 
In  one's  twenty-fourth  year. 

The  Past's  golden  valleys  are  drained. 
I  must  plant 
On  the  Future's  rough  upland  new 
harvests,  I  fear. 


256 


THE  WANDERER, 


Ho,  the  plough  and  the  team  !  .  .  . 
who  would  perish  of  want 
In  his  tweuty-fomlh  year  ? 

Man's  heart  is  a  well,  which  forever 
renews 
The  void  at  the  bottom,  no  sound- 
ing comes  near  : 
And  Love  does  not  die,  though  its 
object  I  lose 
In  my  twenty-fourth  year. 

The  great  and  the  little  are  only  in 
name. 
The  smoke  from  my  chimney  casts 
shadows  as  drear 
On  the  heart,  as  the  smoke  from 
Vesuvius  in  flame  : 
And  my  twenty-fourth  year. 

From  the  joys  that  have  cheered  it, 
the  cares  that  have  troubled. 
What  is  wise  to  pursue,  what  is 
well  to  revere, 
May  judge  all  as  fully  as  though  life 
were  doubled 
To  its  forty-eighth  year  ! 

If  the  prospect  grow  dim,  'tis  be- 
cause it  grows  wide. 
Every  loss  hath  its  gain.     So,  from 
sphere  on  to  sphere, 
Man  mounts  up  the  ladder  of  Time  : 
so  I  stride 
Up  my  twenty-fourth  year  I 

Exulting  ?  .  .  .  no  .  .  .  sorrowing  ? 
.  .  ,  no  .  .  .  with  a  mind 
Whose  regret  chastens  hope,  whose 
faith  triumphs  o'er  fear  : 
Not  repining :   not  confident :    no, 
but  resigned 
To  my  twenty-fourth  year. 

JACQUELINE, 

COUNTESS  OF  HOLLA^^D  AJO)  HAIN- 
AULT.* 

Is  it  the  twilight,  or  my  fading  sight, 
Makes  all  so  dim  around  me  ?    No, 
the  night 


♦  Wlio  waa  married  to  the  impotent  auc 
worthless  Jolm  of  Brabant,  amauced  to  1  lands. 


Is  come  already.  See  I  through  yon- 
der pane. 

Alone  in  the  gray  air,  that  star 
again — 

Which  shines  so  wan,  I  used  to  call 
it  mine  I 

For  its  pale  face :  like  Countess 
Jacqueline 

Who  reigned  in  Brabant  once  .  .  . 
that's  years  ago. 

I  called  so  much  mine,  then  :  so 
much  seemed  so  ! 

And  see,  my  own  ! — of  all  those 
things,  my  star 

(Because  God  hung  it  there,  in 
heaven,  so  far 

Above  the  reach  and  want  of  those 
hard  men)  [Then 

Is  all  they  have  not  taken  from  me. 

I  call  it  still  My  Star.  Why  not  ? 
The  dust 

Hath  claimed  the  dust :  no  more. 
And  moth  and  rust 

May  rot  the  throne,  the  kingly  pur- 
ple fray  : 

What  then  ?  Yon  star  saw  king- 
doms rolled  away 

Ere  mine  was  taken  from  me.  It 
survives. 

But  thnik,  Beloved, — in  that  high 
life  of  lives, 

When  our  souls  see  the  suns  them- 
selves burn  low 

Before  that  Sun  of  Righteousness, — 
and  know 

What  is,  and  was^  before  the  suns 
were  lit, — 

How  love  is  all  in  all .  .  .  Look,  look 
at  it, 

My  star, —  God's  star, —  for  being 
God's  'tis  mine  : 

Had  it  been  man's  ...  no  matter 
.  .  .  see  it  shine — 


"good  Duke  Humphry,"  of  Gloucester, 
and  finally  wedded  to  Frank  von  Borseieui 
a  gentleman  of  Zealand,  in  consequencw  ot 
which  marriage  she  lost  even  tiie  tiileof 
Countess.  She  died  at  the  age  of  tnirty- 
six,  after  a  life  of  unparalleled  adventure 
and  misfortune.  See  any  Biographioid 
Dictionary,  or  any  History  of  the  iiether* 


m  HOLLAND, 


257 


The  old  wan  beam,  which   I  have 

watched  ere  now 
So  many  a  wretched  night,  when  this 

poor  brow 
Ached   'neath    the    sorrows    of    its 

thorny  crown. 
Its  crown  /  .  .  .  ah,  droop  not,  dear, 

those  fond  eyes  down. 
No  gem  in  all  that  shattered  coro- 
net 
Was  half  so  precious    as  the   tear 

which  wet 
Just  now  this  pale  sick  forehead.    O 

my  own. 
My  husband,  need  was,  that  I  should 

have  known 
Much    sorrow,  —  more    than    most 

Queens, — all  know  some, — 
Ere,  dying,  I  could  bless  thee  for  the 

home 
Far  dearer  than  the  Palace, — call  thy 

tear, 
The  costliest  gem  that  ever  sparkled 

here. 

Infold  me,  my  Belove'd.  One  more 
kiss. 

O,  I  must  go  !  'Twas  willed  I  should 
not  miss 

Life's  secret,  ere  I  left  it.  And  now 
see, — 

My  lips  touch  thine — thine  arm  en- 
circles me — 

The  secret's  found — God  beckons— 
.  I  must  go. 

Earth's  best  is  given. — Heaven's 
turn  is  come  to  show 

How  much  its  best  earth's  best  may 
yet  exceed. 

Lest  earth's  should  seem  the  very 
best  indeed. 

So  we  must  part  a  little  ;  but  not 
long. 

I  seem  to  see  it  all.  My  lands  be- 
long 

To  Thilip  still  ;  but  thine  will  be 
my  grave, 

(The  only  strip  of  land  which  I  could 
save  !) 

Not  much,  but  wide  enough  for  some 
few  flowers, 

17 


Thou' It  plant  there,  by  and  by   In 

later  hours  : 
Duke  Humphry,  when  they  tell  him 

I  am  dead 
{And  so  young  too  I)  will  sigh,  and 

shake  his  head. 
And  if  his  wife  should  chide,  "  Poor 

Jacqueline," 
He'll  add,  ''  You  know  she  never 

could  be  mine." 
And  men  will  say,  when  some  one 

speaks  of  me, 
"  Alas,  it  was  a  piteous  history, 
The  life  of  that  poor  countess!" 

For  the  rest 
Will  never  know,  my  love,  how  I 

was  blest. 
Some  few  of  my  poor  Zealanders, 

perchance, 
Will  keep  kind  memories  of  me  ;  and 

in  France 
Some  minstrel  sing  my  story.     Piti- 
less John 
Will  prosper  still,  no  doubt,  as  he 

has  done, 
And  still  praise  God  with  blood  up- 
on the  Rood. 
Philip  will,  doubtless,  still  be  called 

''The  Good." 
And  men  will  curse  and  kill :  and 

the  old  game 
Will  weary  out  new  hands :  the  love 

of  fame 
Will  sow  new  sins  :  thou  wilt  not  be 

renowned  : 
And  I  shall  lie  quite  quiet  under 

ground. 
My  life  is  a  torn  book.     But  at  the 

end 
A  little  page,  quite  fair,  is  saved,  my 

friend,  . 
WTiere  thou  didst  write  thy  name. 

No  stain  is  there. 
No  blot, — from  marge  to  marge,  all 

pure — no  tear  ; — 
The  last  page,  saved  from  all,  and 

writ  by  thee, 
Which  I  shall  take  safe  up  to  Hear 

ven  with  me. 
All's  not  in  vain,  since  this  be  so. 

Dost  grieve  ? 


2S8 


THE  WANDERER. 


Beloved,  I  beseech  thee  to  believe 
Although  this  be  the  last  page  of  my 

life, 
It  is  my  heart's  first,  only  one.    Thy 

wife, 
Poor  though  she  be,  O  thou  sole 

wealth  of  mine, 
Is  happier  than  the  Countess  Jacque- 

hne  1 
And  since  my  heart  owns  thine,  say. 

— am  I  not 
A  Queen ,  my  chosen,  though  by  all 

forgot  ? 
Though  all  forsake,  yet  is  not  this 

thy  hand  ? 
I,  a  lone  wanderer  in  a  darkened 

land, 
I,  a  poor  pilgrim  with  no  staff  of 

hope, 
I,  a  late  traveller  down  the  evening 

slope, 
Where  any  spark,  the  glow-worm's 

by  the  way. 
Had  been  a  light  to  bless  .  .  .  have 

I,  O  say, 
Not  found,  Beloved,  in  thy  tender 

eyes, 
A  light  more  sweet  than  morning's  ? 

As  there  dies 
Some  day  of  storm  all  glorious  in  its 

even, 
My  life  grows  loveliest  as  it  fades  in 

heaven. 
This  earthly  house  breaks  up.    This 

flesh  must  fade. 
So  many  shocks  of  grief  slow  breach 

have  made 
In  the  poor  frame.    Wrongs,  insults, 

treacheries, 
Hopes  broken  down,  and  memory 

which  sighs 
In,  like  a    night-wind  !    Life    was 

never  meant 
To  bear  so  much  in  such  frail  tene- 
ment. 
Why  should  we  seek  to  patch  and 

piaster  o'er 
This  shattered  roof,  crusht  windows, 

broken  door 
The  light  already  shines  through? 

Let  them  break. 


Yet  would  I  gladly  live  for  thy  dear 

sake, 
O  my  heart's  first  and  last,  if  that 

could  be  ! 
In  vain  !  .  .  .  yet  grieve  not  thou. 

I  shall  not  see 
England    again,    and    those    white 

"  cliffs  ,  nor  sver 
Again  those  four  gray  towers  beside 

the  river, 
And  London's  roaring  bridges :  never 

more 
Those  windows  with    the  market- 
stalls  before, 
Where  the  red-kirtled  market-girla 

went  by 
In  the  great  square,   beneath    the 

great  gray  sky, 
In  Brussels  :  nor  in  Holland,  night 

or  day, 
Watch  those  long  lines  of  siege,  and 

fight  at  bay 
Among  my  broken  army,  in  default 
Of  Gloucester's  failing  forces  from 

Hainault : 
Xor  shall  I  pace  again  those  gardens 

green. 
With  their  dipt  alleys,  where  they 

called  me  Queen, 
In    Brabant    once.      For    all  these 

things  are  gone. 
But  thee  I  shall  behold,  my  chosen 

one, 
Though    we    should    seem    whole 

worlds  on  worlds  apart, . 
Because  thou  wilt  be  ever  in  my 

heart. 
Nor  shall  I  leave  thee  wholly.      I 

shall  be 
An    evening    thought, — a    morning 

dream  to  thee, — 
A  silence  in  thy  life  when,  through 

the  night, 
The  bell  strikes,  or  the  sun,  with 

sinking  light, 
Smites  all  the  empty  windows.    As 

there  sprout 
Daisies,  and  dimpling  tufts  of  vio- 
lets, out 
Among  the  grass  where  some  corpse 

lies  asleep. 


IN  HOLLAND. 


259 


So  romid  thy  life,  where  I  lie  buried 

deep, 
A  thousand   little   tender  thoughts 

shall  spring, 
A  thousand  gen'Je  memories  wind 

and  cling. 
O.  promise  me,  my  own,  before  my 

soul 
Is    houseless, — let  the  great  world 

turn  and  roll 
Upon    its    way    unvext    .    .    .    Its 

pomps,  its  powers ! 
The  dust  says  to  the  dust,  ..."  the 

earth  is  ours." 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  Queen 

again 
For  all  the  walls  of  the  wide  world 

contain. 
Be  thou  co]itent  with  silence.     Who 

would  raise 
A  little  dust  and  noise   ot  human 

praise, 
If  he  could  see,  in  yoiider  distance 

dim,  [him  ? 

The  silent  eye  of  God  that  watches 
Oh  !  couldst  thou  see  all  that  I  see 

to-night 
Upon  tlie  brinks  of  the  great  Infi- 
nite ! 
*•'  Come  out  of  her,  my  people,  lest  ye 

be 
Partakers  of  her  sins  !"  .   .  .   My 

love,  but  we 
Our  treasure  where  no  thieves  break 

in  and  steal. 
Have  stored,  1  trust.     Earth's  weal 

is  not  oiu"  weal. 
Let  the  world  mind  its  business- 
peace  or  war, 
Ours  is  elsewhere.    Look,  look, — my 

star,  my  star  ! 
It  grows,  it  glows,  it  spreads  in  light 

imfurled  ; — 
Said    1    "my  star?"     No   star — a 

world — God's  world  ! 
What  hymns  adown  the  jasper  sea 

are  rolled, 
Even  to  these  sick  pillows  I     Who 

infold 
White  wings  about  me  ?    Rest,  rest, 

rest  ...  I  come  ! 


0  Love  !  I  think  that  I  am  near  nij 

home. 
Whence  was  that  music  ?     Was  it 

Heaven's  1  heard  ? 
Write    "Blessed   are  the  dead  that 

die  V  the  Lord, 
Because  they  i-est."'    .   .    .    because 

their  toil  is  o'er. 
The  voice  of  weeping  shall  be  heard 

no  more 
In  the  Eternal  city.     Neither  dying 
Nor  sickness,  pain  nor  sorrow,  nei- 
ther crying, 
For  God  shall  wipe  awa'^   all  tears. 

Rest,  rest. 
Thy  hand,  my  husband, — so — upon 

thy  breast  ! 

MACROMICROS. 

It  is  the  star  of  solitude 

Alight  in  yon  lonely  sky. 
The  sea  is  silent  in  its  mood, 

Motherlike  moaning  a  luliaby 

To  hush  the  hungering  mystery 
To  sleep  on  its  breast  subdued. 

The  night  is  alone,  and  I. 

It  is  not  the  scene  I  am  seeing, 

The  lonely  sky  and  the  sea. 
It  is  the  pathos  of  Being 

That  is  making  so  dark  in  me 
This  silent  and  solemn  hour  ; — 
The  bale  of  baffled  power. 

The  wail  of  unbaffled  desire, 
The  fire  that  must  ever  devour 

The  source  by  which  ii  is  fire. 

My  spirit  expands,  expands  ! 
I  spread  out  my  soul  on  ilie  sea- 

1  feel  for  yet  unfound  lands. 

And  1  rind  but  the  ]and  where  She 
Sits,  with  her  sad  white  hands, 

At  lier  goiden  broidery. 
In  sight  of  the  sorrowful  sands, 

In  an  antique  gallery, 
Where,  ever  beside  her,  stands 

(Moodily  mimicking  mti) 
The  ghost' of  a  something  her  heart 
demands 

For  u  blessing  which  cannot  be. 


;&o 


THE  WANDERER, 


And  broider,  broider  by  night  and 
day 
The  brede  of  thy  blazing  broidery ! 
Till    tby    beauty  be  wholly  woven 
away 
Into  the  desolate  tapestry. 
Let  the  thread  be  scarlet,  the  gold 

be  gay, 
For  the  damp  to  dim,  and  the  moth 
to  fray  : 
Weave  in  the  azure,  and  crimson, 
and  green  ! 
Till  the  slow  threads,  needling  out 

and  in, 
To  take  a  fashion  and  form  begin  : 
Yet,  for  all  the  time  and  toil,  I  see 
The  work  is  vain,  and  will  not  be 
Like  what  it  was  meant  to  have 
been. 

0  woman,    woman,    with    face    so 

pale  ! 
Pale  woman,  weaving  away 
A    frustrate    life    at    a    lifeless 
loom, 
Early  or  late,  'tis  of  little  avail 

That  thou  lightest  the  lamp  in 
the  gloom. 
Full  well,  I  see,  there  is  coming  a 
day 
When  the  work  shall  forever  rest 
incomplete. 
Fling,  lling  the  foolish  blazon  away, 
And  weave  me  a  winding-sheet  I 

It  is  not  for  thee  in  this  dreary  hour, 
That  I  walk,  companionless  here 
by  the  shore. 

1  am  caught  in  the  eddy  and  whirl 

of  a  power 
Which  is  not  grief,  and  is  not  love. 

Though  it  loves  and  grieves, 
Within  me,  without  me,  wherever  I 
move 
In  the  going  out  of  the  ghostly 
eves. 
And  is  changing  me  more  and 
more. 
I   am   not   mourning   for   thee,    al- 
tboiigh 
I  love  thee,  and  thou  art  lost  : 
Nor  yet  for  myself,  albeit  1  know 


That  my  life  is  flawed  and  crost : 
But    for    that    sightless,    sorrowing 
Soul 
That  is  feeling  blind  with  immortal 

pain, 
All  round,  for  what  it  can  never 
attain  ; 
That  prisoned,  pining,  and  passion- 
ate soul. 
So  vast,  and  yet  so  small  ; 
Tliat  seems,  now  nothing,  now  all, 
That  moves  me  to  pity  beyond  con- 
trol, 
And  repulses  pity  again. 
I  am  mourning,  since  mourn  I  must, 
With  those  patient  Powers  that 

bear, 
'Neath  the  unattainable  stars  up 
there, 
With  the  pomp  and  pall  of  funeral. 
Subject  and  yet  august. 
The  weight  of  this  world's  dust  : — 

The  ruined  giant  under  the  rock  : 
The    stricken    spirit    below    the 
ocean  : 
And  the  winged  things  wounded  of 
old  by  the  shock 
That  set  the  earth  in  motion. 

Ah  yet,  .  .  .  and  yet,  and  yet, 
If  She  were  here  with  me, 
If  she  were  here  by  tlie  sea. 

With  the  face  I  cannot  forget,  . 
Then  all  things  would  not  be 

So  fraught  with  my  own  regret. 
But  what  I  should  feel  and  see, 

And  seize  it  at  last,  at  last, — 

The  secret  known  and  lost  in  the 
past. 
To  unseal  the  Genii  that  sleep 
In  vials  long  hid  in  the  deep  ; 

By  forgotten,  fashionless  spells  held 
fast. 

Where  through  streets  of  the  cities 
of  coral,  aghast. 
The  sea-rympiis  wander  and  weep. 


MYSTERY. 

The  hour  was  one  of  mystery, 
When  v/e  were  sailing,  I  and  sho, 


m  HOLLAND. 


: 


26i 


Down  the  dark,  the  silent  stream, 
The  stars  above  were  pale  with  love, 
And  a  wizard  wind  did  faintly  move, 

Like  a  whisper  through  a  dream. 

Her  head  was  on  my  breast, 

Her  loving  little  head  ! 
Her  hand  in  mine  was  prest, 

And  not  a  word  we  said  ; 
But  round  and  round  the  night  we 
wound. 
Till  we  came  at  last  to  the  Isle  of 
Fays  ; 
And,  all  the  while,  from  the  magic 
isle. 
Came  that  music,  that  music  of 
other  days  I 

The  lamps  in  the  garden  gleamed. 

The  Palace  was  all  alight. 
The  sound  of  the  viols  streamed 

Through  the  windows    over    the 
night. 
We  saw  the  dancers  pass 

At  the  windows,  two  by  two. 
The  dew  was  on  the  grass, 

And  the  glow-worm  in  the  dew. 

We  came  through  the  grass  to  the 

cypress-tree. 
We  stood  in  its  shadow,  I  and  she. 
"Thy  face  is  pale,  thine  eyes  are 

wild. 
What    aileth    thee,    what    aileth 

thee?" 

"  Naught  aileth  me,"  she  murmured 

mild, 
"  Only    the    moonlight    makes    me 

pale  ; 
The  moonlight,  shining  through  the 

veil 
Of  this  black  cypress-tree." 

"  By  yonder  moon,  whose  light  so 
soon 
Will  fade  upon  the  gloom. 
And  this  black  tree,  whose  mystery 

lb  mingled  with  the  tomb, — 
By  Love's  brief  moon,  and  Death' ;^ 

dark  tree, 
Lovest  thou  me  ?  " 


Upon   my   breast   she   leaned   her 
head  ; 

"  By  yonder  moon  and  tree, 
I  swear  that  all  my  soul,"  she  said, 

"Is  given  to  thee." 

*'  I  know  not  what  thy  soul  may  be, 

Nor  canst  thou  make  it  mine. 
Yon  stars  may  all  be  worlds  :  for  me 

Enough  to  know  tbey  shine. 
Thou  art  mine  evening  star.    I  know 

At  dawn  star-distant  thou  wilt  be  , 
I  shall  not  hear  thee    murmuring 
low  ; 

Thy  face  I  shall  not  see. 
I  love  thy  beauty  :  'twill  not  stay 
Let  it  be  all  mine  while  it  may. 

I  have  no  bliss  save  in  the  kiss 
Thou  givest  me." 

We  came  to  the  statue    carved  in 

stone, 
Over  the  fountain.     We  stood  there 

alone. 
"  What  aileth  thee,  that  thou  dost 

sigh  '? 
And  why  is  thy  hand  so  cold  ?" 
"'Tis    the    fountain     that    sighs," 

.  .  .  she  said.  "  not  I  ; 
And   the   statue,  whose  hand  thou 

dost  hold.' 


"  By  yonder  fount,  that  flows  for- 
ever. 
And    this    statue,     that    cannot 
move, — 
By  the  fountain  of  Time,  that  ceases 
never, 
And  the  fixedness  of  Love, — 
By  motion  and  immutabilitj- 
Lovest  thou  me  ?  " 

'^By  the  fountain  of  Time,  with  its 
ceaseless  How, 
And  the  image  of  Love  that  rests," 
sighed  she, 
"I  love  thee,   I  swear,   come  joy,, 
come  woe, 
For  eternity  I" 


:6i. 


THE  V/Aj^DERER. 


"  Eternity  is  a  word  so  long 
That  I  cannot  spell  it  now  ; 

For  tlie   nightingale  is  singing  her 
song 
From  yon  pomegranate  hough. 

Let  it  mean  what  it  may — Eternity, 

If  thou  lovest  me  now  as  I  love  thee, 

As  I  love  thee  I  " 

We     came    to    the    Palace.      We 

mounted  the  stair. 
The    great  hall -doors    wide    open 

were. 
And  all  the  dancers  that  danced   in 

the  hall 
Greeted  us  to  the  festival. 

There  were  ladies,  as   fair  as  fair 

might  be, 
But  not  one  of  them  all  was  as  fair 

as  she. 
There  were  knights  that  looked   at 

them  lovingly, 
But  not  one  of  them  all  was  loving 

as  I. 

Only,  each  nohle  cavalier 

Had  his   throat  red-lined  from  ear 

to  ear  ; 
'Twas    a    collar    of    merit,   I   have 

heard, 
Which  a  Queen  upon  each  had  once 

conferred. 
And  each  lovely  lady  that  oned  her 

lip 
Let  a  little  mouse's  tail  outslip  ; 
'Twas  the  fashion  there,  1  know  not 

why. 
But    fashions    are    changing    con- 

tantly. 
From  the  crescented  naphtha  lamps 

each  ray 
Streamed   into   a  still   enchanted 

blaze  ; — 
And    forth    from    the    deep  -  toned 

orchestra 
That  music,  that  music  of   other 

days  1  ■ 

My  arm  enlaced  her  winsome  waist, 
And  down  the  dance  we  flew  : 


We  flew,  we  raced  :    our  lips  em- 
braced : 
And  our  breath  was  mingled  too. 
Round,     and    round,   to    a    magic 
sound — 
(A    wizard   waltz  to    a  wizard 
air  !) 
Round   and  round,  we  whirled,  we      | 
woimd, 
In  a  circle  light  and  fine  : 
My  cheek  "was   fanned   by  her 
fragrant  hair. 
And  her  bosom  beat  on  mine  : 
And   all  the  while,  in  the  winding 

ways, 
That    music,   that    music   of   other 
days, 
With  its  melodies  divine  ! 

The  palace  clock  stands  in  the  hall, 
And  talks,  unheard,  of  the  flight 
of  time  : 

With  a  face  too  pale  for  a  festival 
It  telleth  a  tale  too  sad  for  rhyme. 

The  palace  clock,  with  a  silver  note, 
Is  chanting  the  death  of  the  hour 
that  dies. 

"  What  aiieth  thee  ?  for  I  see  float 
A  shade  into  thine  eyes." 

*'  Naught  aiieth    me,"    .    .    .    low 
muruuired  she, 
"lam   faint   with  the  dance,  my 
love, 
Give    me    thine  arm  :    the    air    is 
warm  : 
Lead  me  unto  the  grove." 

We  wandered  into  the  grove.     We 

found 
A  bower  by  woodbine  woven  round. 

Upon  my    breast  she    leaned    her 
head  : 
I  drew  lier  into  the  bower  apart. 
"I  swear  to    thee,   my    love,"  she 
said, 
'•  Thou  liast  my  heart  ! " 

"Ah,  leave  thy  little  heart  at  rest  \ 
For  it  is   so    light,    I    think,   so 
!i<;ht. 


IN  HOLLAND. 


263 


Some  wind  would  blow  it  away  to- 

uight, 
If  it  were  not  safe  in  thy  breast. 
But    tlie    wondrous    brightness    on 
tliine  hair 
Did  never  seem  more  bright  : 
And  tliy  beauty  never  loolved  more 
fair 
Than  thy  beauty  looks  to-night  : 
And  this   dim  hour,  and  tliis   wild 
bower, 
"Were  made  for  our  delight  : 
Here  we  will  stay,  until  the  day, 
In  yon  dark  east  grows  white." 
*•  This  may  not  be,"    .    .    .    she  an- 
swered me, 
"  For  I  was  lately  wed 
With  a  diamond  ring  to  an   Ogre- 
king. 
And  I  am  his  wife,"    .    .    .    she 
said. 
**  My  husband  is  old,  but  his  crown 
is  of  gold  : 
And  he  hath  a  cruel  eye  : 
And  his  arm  is  long,  and  his  hand  is 
strong. 
And  his  body  is  seven  ells  high  : 
And  alas  !    I  fear,  if  he  found  us 
here. 
That  we  both  should  surely  die. 

"All    day    I  take    my    harp,    and 
play 
To  him  on  a  golden  string  : 
Thorough  the  weary  livelong  day 

I  play  to  him,  and  sing  : 
I  sing  to  him  till  his  white  hair 

Iiogins  to  cm-i  and  creep  : 
And  ills  wrinkles  old  slowly  unfold, 
And  his   brows   grow  smooth   as 
sleep. 
But  at  night,  when  he  calls  for  his 
golden  cup. 
Into  his  wine  I  pour 
A  juice  which  he  drinks  duly  up, 
And  sleeps  till  the  night  is  o'er. 
For  one  moment  I  wait  :  I  look  at 
him  straight, 
And  tell  him  for  once  how  much 
I  detest  him  : 
I  have  no  fear  least  he  should  hear, 


The  drug  he  hath  drained  hath  so 
ojiprest  him. 
Then,  tinger  on  lip,  away  I  slip. 
And  down  the  hills,  till  I  reach  tho 
stream  :  [pcar, 

I  call  to  thee   clear,  till  the  boat  ap- 
And  we  sail  together  through  dark 
and  dream. 
And  sweet  it  is,  in  this  Isle  of  Fays, 
To  wander  at  will  through  a  garden 
of  flowers, 
While   the  tJowers  that  bloom,  and 
the  lamps  that  blaze, 
And  the  very  nightingales   seem 
oms  !  [ways 

And   sweeter  it  is,  in  the  winding; 
Of  the  waltz,  while  the  music  falls 
in  showers. 
While   the  minstrel  plays,  and  the 
moment  stays, 
And  the  sweet   brief  rapture  of 
love  is  ours  ! 

"  But  the  night  is  xar  spent;  and 
before  the  first  rent 
In  yon  dark  bliK^  sky  overhead, 
My  husband  will  wake,  and  the  spell 
will  break, 
And  peril  is  near,"  .  .  .  she  said. 
"  For  if  he  should  wake,  and  not  tind 

me. 
By  bower  and  brake,  thorough  bush 
and  tree. 
He  will  come  to  seek  me  here  ; 
And  the  Palace  of  Fays,  in  one  vast 
blaze. 
Will  sink  and  disappear  ; 
And  the  nightingales  will  die  in  the 
vales, 
xlnd    all    will    be    changed    and 
drear  I 
For  the  fays  and  elves  can  take  caro 
of  themselves  : 
They  will  slip  on  their  slippers, 
and  go  : 
In  their  little  green  cloaks  they  will 
hide  in  the  oaks, 
And  the  forests   and  brakes,  for 
their  sweet  sakes. 
Will    cover    and  keep  theoir  I 
know. 


;o4 


THE  WANDERER. 


And  the  knights,  with  their  spurs, 
and  velvets  and  furs, 
Will  take    off  their  heads,   each 
one, 
And  to  horse,  and  away,  as  fast  as 
they  may. 
Over    brook,  and     bramble,   and 
stone  ; 
And  each  dame  of  the  house  has   a 
little  dmi  mouse. 
That  will  whisper  her  when  to  be 
gone  ; 
But  we,   my  love,  in  this  desolate 
grove, 
We  shall  be  left  alone  ; 
And  my  husband  will  find  us,  take 
us  and  bind  us  : 
In  his  cave  he  will  lock  me  up, 
And  pledge  me  for  spite  in  thy  blood 
by  night 
When  he  drains  down  his  golden 
cup." 

"  Thy  husband,  dear,  is  a  monster, 
'tis  clear. 
But  just  now  I  will  not  tarry 
Thy  choice  to  dispute — how  on  earth 
such  a  brute 
Thou    hadst  ever    the    fancy   to 
marry. 
For  wherefore,  meanwhile,  are   we 
tv,'o  here, 
In  a  fairy  island  under  a  spell. 
By  night,  in  a  magical  atmosphere, 

In  a  lone  enchanted  dell, 
If  we  are  to  say  and  do  no  more 
Than  is  said  and  done  by  the  dull 
daylight. 
In  that  dry  old  world,  where  both 
must  ignore, 
To-morrow,    the    dream    of    to- 
night." 

Her  head  drooped  on  my  breast. 

Fair  foolish  little  head  ! 
Her  lips  to  mine  were  prest. 

Never  a  word  was  said. 

If  it  were  but  a  dream  of  the  night, 
A  dream  that  I  dreamed  in  sleep- 
Why,  then,  is  my  face  so  white, 
iidid  this  wound  so  red  axid  deep  ? 


But  whatever  it  was,  it  all  took  place 
In  a  land  where  never  your  steps 
will  go. 
Though  they  wander,  wherever  they 
"will,  through  space  ; 
In  an  hour  you  never  will  know, 
Though    you    should  outlive  the 
crow 
That  is  like  to  outlive  your  race. 

And  if  it  were  but  a  dream,  it  broke 
Too  soon,  albeit  too  late  I  woke. 
Waked  by  the  smart  of  a  Rounding 
stroke  , 

Which  has  so  confused  my  wits, 
That  I  cannot  remember,  and  never 

shall, 
What  was  the  close  of  that  festival, 
Nor  how  the  Palace  was  shat- 
tered to  bits  : 
For  all   that,  just  now,  I    think  I 

know. 
Is  what  is  the  force  of  an  Ogre's 
blow. 
As  my  head,  by  starts  and  fits. 
Aches  and  throbs  ;  and,  when  I  look 

round, 
All  that  I  hear    is    the    sickening 
sound 
Of  the  nurse's  watch,  and  the  doc- 
tor's boots, 
Instead  of  the  magical  fairy  flutes; 
And  all  that  I  see,  in  my  love's  lost 

place, 
Is  that  gin-drinking  hag,  with  her 
nut- cracker  face, 
By  the   earth's    half-burned    out 

wood  : 
And  the  only  stream  is  this  stream 
of  blood 
That  flows  from  me,  red  and  wide  : 
Yet  still  I  hear, — as  sharp  and  clear, 
In  the  horrible,  horrible  silence  out- 
side. 
The  clock  that  stands  in  the  empty 
hall,    • 
And  talks  to  my  soul  of  the  flight  ol 
time  ; 
With  a  face  like  a  face  at  a  fu- 
neral, 
Telling  a  tale  too  sad  for  rhyme  : 


.^ITT 


.*?  ^. 


/A^  HOLLAND,         ^^^*'' JT.?  C  %^^^^ 


i\)-.\  still  I  hear,  witli  as  little  cheer, 
111  the  yet  more  horrible  silence 
inside. 
Chanted,   perchance,   by  elves   and 

fays, 
From   s«>nie  far  island,  out   of  my 
gaze, 
Where  a  house    has  fallen,   and 
some  one  has  died. 
That  music,   that    music   of    other 
days, 
With  its  minstrelsy  undescried  ! 
For    time,   which    surviveth   every- 
thing. 
And   Memory  which  surviveth 
Time  :-- 
These  two  sit  by  my  side,  and  sing, 
A  soug  too  sad  for  rhyme. 


THE  CANTICLE  OF  LOVE. 

I  ONCE  ht-ani   an  angel,  by  night,  in 
the  sky. 
Singing  softly  a  song  to   a  deep 
golden  lute  : 
TLe  polestar,  the  seven  little  planets, 
and  I, 
To  the  song  that  he  sung  listened 
mute. 
For  the  song  that  he  sung  v.^as  so 
strange  and  iso  sweet, 
And   so   tender  the   tones   of  his 
luie's  golden  stiln^s. 
That    the    Seraphs   of   ileavcn   sat 
husbt  at  his  feet, 
And  folded  their  heads  iu  their 
wings. 

And  the  song  that  he  sung  by  those 
Seraphs  up  there 

Is  called  .  .  .  "Love."  But  the 
words,  I  had  heard  them  else- 
where. 

For,  when  I  was  last  in  the  nether- 
most Hell, 
On  a    rock  'mid  the  sulphurous 
surges,  I  heard 

A  pf»l3  spirit  sing  to  a  wild  hollo w 
shell. 


And  his  song  was  the  same,  everj 

word. 
But  so  sad  was  his  singing,  all  Hell 

to  the  sound 
Moaned,  and,  wailing,  complained 

like  a  monster  in  pain. 
While  the  fiends  hovered  near  o'er 

the  dismal  profound. 
With  their  black  wings  weighed 

down  by  the  strain. 

And  the  song  that  was  sung  by  the 
Lost  Ones  down  there 

Is  called  .  .  .  "Love."  But  the 
spirit  that  smig  was  Despair. 

W^hen  the  moon  sets  to-night,  I  will 
go  down  to  ocean, 
Bare  my  brow  to  the  breeze,  and 
my  heart  to  its  anguish  ; 
And  sing  till  the  Siren  with  pining 
emotion 
(Unroused  in  her  sea-caves)  shall 
languish. 
And  the  Sylphs  of  the  water  shall 
crouch  at  my  feet, 
With    tlieir  white    wistful    faces 
turned  upward  to  hear, 
And  the  soft  Salamanders  shall  float, 
in  the  heat 
Of  the  ocean  volcanoes,  more  near. 

For  the  song  I  have  learned,  all  that 

listen  shall  move  : 
But  there's  oUe  will  not  listen,  and 

that  one  I  love. 


THE  PEDLER. 

TnERE  was  a  man,  whom  you  might 
see. 
Toward    nightfall,  on  the  dusty 
track, 
Farmg,  footsore  and  wearily — 
A  strong  box  on  his  back. 

A  speck  against  the  flaring  sky, 
You    saw  him  pass    the  line  of 
dates, 

The  camel-drivers  loitering  by 
From  Bagdadt's  dusking  gates. 


266 


THE  WANDERER. 


The  merchants  from  Bassora  stared, 
And  of  his  wares  would  question 
him. 

But,  without  answer,  on  he  fared 
Into  the  evening  dim. 

Nor  only  in  the  east :  hut  oft 

In  northern  lands  of  ice  and  snow, 

You  might  have  seen,  past  field  and 
croft, 
That  figure  faring  slow. 

His  cheek  was  worn  ;  his  back  bent 
double 
Beneath  the  iron  box  he  bore  ; 
And  in  his  walk  there  seemed  such 
trouble, 
You  saw  his  feet  were  sore. 

You  wondered  if  he  ever  had 
A  settled  home,  a  wife,  a  child  : 

You  marvelled  if  a  face  so  sad 
At  any  time  had  smiled. 

The    cheery    housewife   oft    would 

fling 
A  pitying  alms,  as  on  he  strode. 
Where,   round  the  hearth,   a  rosy 
ring. 
Her  children's  faces  glowed  : 

In  the  dark  doorway,  oft  the  maid, 
Late-lingering  on  her  lover's  arm. 

Watched  through  the  twilight,  half 
afraid, 
That  solitary  form. 

The  traveller  hailed  him  oft,   .   .   . 
*'  Good  night  : 
The  town  is  far  :  the  road  is  lone  : 
God  speed  I "   .   .   .   already  out  of 
sight. 
The  wayfarer  was  gone. 

But,  when  -the  night  was  late  and 
still, 

And  the  last  star  of  all  had  crept 
Into  his  place  above  the  hill. 

He  laid  him  down  and  slept. 

His  head  on  that  strong  box  he  laid  : 
And  there,  beneath  the  star-cold 
skies. 

In  slumber,  I  have  heard  it  said- 
There  rose  before  his  eyes 


A  lovely  dream,  a  vision  fair. 
Of  some  far-off,  forgotten  land, 

And  of  a  girl  with  golden  hair, 
And  violets  in  her  hand. 

He  sprang  to  kiss  her  ...  "Ah  ! 
once  more 
Return,  beloved,  and  bring  with 
thee 
The  gloiy  and  delight  of  yore, — 
Lost  evermore  to  me  ! 

Then,   ere  she    answered,   o'er  his 
back 
There   fell  a    brisk    and    sudden 
stroke, — 
So  sound  and  resolute  a  thwack 
That,  with  the  blow,  he  woke  .  .  . 

There  comes  out  of  that  iron  box 
An  ugly  hag,  an  angry  crone  ; 

Her    crutch    about    his    ears    she 
knocks : 
She  leaves  him  not  alone  : 

"  Thou  lazy  vagabond  !  come,  budge. 
And  carry  me  again,"  .  .  .   she 
says  : 
"Not  half  the  journey's  over  .  .  . 
trudge  I " 
.  .  .  He  groans,  and  he  obeys. 

Oft  in  the  sea  he  sought  to  fling 
That  iron  box.  But  witches  swim: 

And  wave   and  wind  were  sure  to 
bring 
The  old  hag  back  to  him  ; 

Wlio  all  the  more  about  his  brains 
Belabored    him  with  such    hard 
blows. 
That  the  poor  devil,  for  his  pains. 
Wished    himself  dead,    heaven 
knows  I 

ioce,  is  it  thy  hand  in  mine  ?  .  .  , 
Behold  ! 
I  see  the  crutch  uplifted  high. 
The  angry  hag  prepares  to  scold. 

O,  yet  we  might Good 

by  I 


IN  HOLLAND. 


267 


A  GHOST  STOEY. 

I  LAY  awake  past  midnight : 
The  moon  set  o'er  the  snow  : 

The  very  cocks,  for  coldness, 
Could  neither  sleep  nor  crow. 

There  came  to  me,  near  morning, 

A  wonian  pale  and  fair  : 
She  seemed  a  monarch's  daughter, 

By  the  red  gold  round  her  hair. 

The  ring  upon  her  finger 
Was  one  that  well  I  Imow 

I  knew  her  fair  face  also, 
For  I  had  loved  it  so  ! 

But  I  felt  I  saw  a  spirit, 

And  I  was  sore  afraid  ; 
For  it  is  many  and  many  a  year 

Ago,  since  she  was  dead. 

I  would  have  spoken  to  her, 
But  I  could  not  speak,  for  fear  : 

Because  it  was  a  homeless  ghost 
That  walked  beyond  its  sphere  ; 

Till  her  head  from  her  white  shoul- 
ders 

She  lifted  up  :  and  said  .  .  . 
^^  Look  in  I  you' LI  find  F in  hollo 

Pray  do  not  he  afraid !  " 


SMALL  PEOPLE. 

The  warm  moon  was  up  in  the  sky. 

And  the  warm  summer  out  on  the 
land. 
There  trembl':^d  l  tear  from  her  eye : 

There  trembied  a  tear  on  my  hand. 

Her  sweet  face  I  could  not  see  clear, 
For  the  shade  was  so  dark  in  the 
tree  : 
I  only  felt  touched  by  a  tear, 
And  I  thought  that  the  teai  vvas 
for  me. 

In  her  small  ear  I  whispered  a  word — 
With  her  sweet  lips  she  laughod  in 
my  face 


And,  as  light  through  the  leaves  as  a 
bird. 
She  flitted  away  from  the  place. 

Theu  she  told  to    her    sister,   the 
Snake, 
All  I   said,   and  her  cousin    the 
Toad. 
The  Snake  slipped  away  to  the  brake, 
The   Toad  went  to  town  by  the 
road. 

Tlie  Toad  told  the   Devil's  coach- 
horse. 
Who  cock'd    up    his  tail  at  the 
news. 
The    Snake    hissed    the    secret,   of 
course, 
To  the  Newt,  who  was  changing 
her  shoes. 

The  Newt  drove  away  to  the  ball. 
And  told  it  the  Scorpion  and  Asp, 

The  Spider,  who  lives  in  the  wall, 
Overheard  it,  and  told  it  the  Wasp. 


The 


the 


Wasp  told  the  Midge  and 
Gnat : 
And  the  Gnat  told  the  Flea  and 
the  Nit. 
The  Nit  dropped  an  egg  as  she  sat : 
The  Flea  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  bit. 

The  Nit  and  the  Flea  are  too  small. 
And  the  Snake  slips  from  under 
my  foot : 

I  wish  I  could  find  'mid  them  all 
A  man, — to  insult  and  to  shoot  I 


METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

She  fanned  my  life  out  with  her  soft 
little  sighs  : 
She  hushed  me  to  death  with  her 
face  so  fair  : 
I  was  drunk  with  the  light  of  her 
wild  blue  eyes, 
And  strangled  dumb  in  her  long 
gold  hair. 


268 


THE  WANDERER, 


So  now  I'm  a  blessed  and  wandering 
ghost, 
Tliough  I  cannot  quite  find  out  my 
way  up  to  heaven  : 
But  I  hover   about    o'er    the  long 
reedy  coast, 
In  the  wistful  light  of  a  low  red 
even. 

I  have  borrowed  the  coat  of  a  little 
gray  gnat  : 
There's  a  small  sharp  song  I  have 
learned  how  to  sing  : 
I  know  a  green  place  she  is  sure  to 
be  at  : 
I  shall  light  on  her  neck  there, 
and  sting,  and  stiug. 

Tra-la-la,  tra~la-la,  life  never  pleased 
me  ! 
I  fly  where  I  list  now,  and  sleep  at 
my  ease. 
Buzz,  buzz,  buzz  I  the  dead  only  are 
free. 
Yonder  s  my  way  now.  Give  place, 
if  you  please. 


TO  THE  QUEEN  OF  SERPENTS. 

I  TKUST   that    never  more  in  this 
world's  shade 
Thine  eyes  will  be  upon  me  :  never 
more 
Thy  face   come    back  to  me.     For 
thou  hast  made 

My  whole  life  sore  : 

And  I   might    curse  thee,   if  thou 
earnest  again 
To  mock  me  with  the  memoiy  in 
thy  face 
Of  days  I  would  had  been  not.     So 
much  pain 

Hath  made  me  base — 

Enough  to  wreak  the  wrath  of  years 
of  vrrong 
Even  on  so  frail  and  weak  a  thing 
as  thou  I 
Faxe  hence,  and  be  forgotten.  .  .  . 
Sing  thy  song. 

And  braid  thy  brow, 


And    be    beloved,   and  beautiful,— 
and  be 
In  beauty  baleful  still  ...  a  Ser- 
pent Queen 
To  others  not  yet  curst  by  kissing 
Lhee, 

As  I  have  been. 

But  come  not  nigh  me  till  my  end 
be  near. 
And  I  have  turned  a  dying  face 
toward  heaven. 
Then,  if  ihou  wilt,  approach, — and 
have  no  fear, 

And  be  forgiven. 

Close,  if  thou  wilt,  mine  eyes,  and 
smooth  my  hair  : 
Fond  words  will  come  upon-  my 
parting  breath. 
Nor,  having  desolated  life,  forbear 
Kind  offices  to  death. 

BLUEBEARD. 

I  WAS  to  wed  young  Fatima, 
As  pure  as  April's  snowdrops  are, 

In  whose  love   lay  hid  my  crooked 
life, 
As  in  its  sheath  my  cimeter. 

Among  the  hot  pomegranate  boughs, 
At  sunset,  here  alone  we  sat. 

To  call  back  something  from  that 
hour 
I'd  give  away  my  Caliphat. 

She  broke  her  song  to  gaze  at  me  : 
Her    lips     she    leaned    my    lipi 
above  .  .  . 

"  Why  art  thou  silent  all  this  while, 
Lord  of  my  life,  and  of  my  love  ?  " 

"  Silent  I  am,  young  Fatima, 
For  silent  is  my  soul  in  me, 

And  language  will  not  help  the  want 
Of  that  which  cannot  ever  6e." 

"  But  wherefore  is  thy  ^pinc  sad, 
My  lord,  my  love,  my  life  ?  ''  .  . 
she  said.     " 
^^  Because  thy  face  is  wondrous  like 
The  face  of  cne  I  knew,   thafa 
dead." 


IN  HOLLAND. 


269 


"All  cruel,  cruel,"  cried  Fatima, 
"That  I  should  not  possess  the 
past  ! 
What  woman's  lips  first  kissed  the 
hps 
Where  my  Idss  lived  and  lingered 
last  ? 

"And  she  that's  dead  was  loved  by 
thee, 
That  so  her  memory  moves  thee 
yet?  .  .  . 
Thy  face  grows  cold  and  white,  as 
looks 
The  moon  o'er  yonder  minaret  ! " 

*^  Ay,  Fatima  1  I  loved  her  well, 
With  all  of  love's  and  life's  de- 
spair, 

Or  else  I  had  not  strangled  her, 
That  night,  in  her  own  fatal  hair.'' 


FATIMA. 

A  YEAR  ago  thy  cheek  was  bright, 
As  oleander  buds  that  break 

The  dark  of  yonder  dells  by  night 
Above  the  lamp-lit  lake. 

Pale  as  a  snowdrop  in  Cashmere 
Thy    face    to-night,    fair    infant, 
seems. 
Ah,   wretched    child  !     What    dost 
thou  hear 
When  I  talk  in  my  dreams  ? 

GOING  BACK  AGAIN. 

I  DREAMED  that  I  Walked  in  Italy 
When  the  day  was  going  down, 

By  a  water  that  flowed  quite  silently 
Through  an  old  dim-lighted  town  : 

Till  I  came  to  a  Palace  fair  to  see  : 
Wide  open  the  windows  were  : 

My  love  at  a  window  sat,  and  she 
Beckoned  me  up  the  stair. 

I  roamed  through  many  a  corridor 
And  many  a  chamber  of  state  : 

I  passed  through  many  an  open  door, 
While  the  day  was  growing  late  ; 


Till  I  came  to  the  Bridal  Chamber  at 

last. 

All  dim  in  the  darkening  weather. 
The  flowers  at  the  window  were  talk- 
ing fast, 

And  whispering  all  together. 

The  place  was  so  still  that  I  could 
hear 
Every  word  that  they  said  : 
They  were  whispering  under  their 
breath  with  fear. 
For  somebody  there  was  dead. 

WTien  I  came  to  the  little  rose-colored 
room, 
From  the  window  there  flew  a  bat. 
The  window  was  opened  upon  the 
gloom  : 
My  love  at  the  window  sat. 

She  sat  with  her  guitar  on  her  knee, 
But  she  was  not  singing  a  note. 

For  some  one  had  drawn  (ah,  who 
could  it  be  ?) 
A  knife  across  her  throat. 


THE  CASTLE   OF  KING   MAC- 
BETH. 

This  is  the  castle  of  King  Macbeth. 
And    here    he    feasts — when    the 
daylight  wanes, 
And  the  moon  goes  softly  over  the 
heath — 
His  Earls  and  Thanes. 

A  hundred  harpers  with  harps  of  gold 
Harp  through  the  night  high  festi- 
val : 
And  the  sound  of  the  music  they 
make  is  rolled 
From  hall  to  hall. 

They  drink    deep    healths    till    the 
rafters  rock 
In    the  Banquet  Hall  ;    and   the 
shout  is  borne 
To  the   com-ts  outside,  where  the 
crowing  cock 
la  waked  ere  aionu 


270 


THE  WANDERER. 


And  the  castle  is  i\\  in  a  blaze  of 
light 
From    cresset,     and    torch,    and 
sconce  :  and  there 
Each  warrior  dances  all  the  night 
With  his  lady  fair. 

They  dance  and  sing  till  the  raven  is 
stirred 
On  the  wicked  elm-tree  outside  in 
the  gloom  : 
And  the  rustle  of  silken  robes  is 
heard 
From  room  to  room. 

But  there  is  one  room  in  that  castle 
old, 
In  a  lonely  turret  where  no  one 
goes, 
And  a  dead  man  sits  there,  stark  and 
cold, 
Whom  no  one  knows. 


DEATH-IN-LIFE. 

Blest  is  the  babe  that  dies  within 

the  womb. 
Blest  is  the  corpse  which  lies  within 

the  tomb. 
And  blest  that  death  for  which  this 

life  makes  room. 

But  dreary  is  the  tomb  where  the 

corpse  lies  : 
And  wretched  is  the  womb  where 

the  child  dies  : 
And  curst  that  death  which  steals 

this  life's  disguise. 


KING  LIMOS. 

There  once  was  a  wicked,  old,  gray 
king- 
Long  damned,  as  I  have  reason  to 
know, 
For   he  was    buried    (and    no   bad 
thing  !) 
Hundreds  of  years  ago. 


His  wicked  old  heart  had  grown  sc 
chilled 
That  the  leech,  to  warn  him,  did 
not  shrink 
To  give   him  each  night  a  goblet,  | 
filled 
With  a  virgin's  blood,  to  drink.       [ 

"  A  splenetic  legend,"  .  .  .  you  say,  i 

of  course  !  i, 

Yet  there  may  be  something  in  it, 

too.  j 

Kill,  or  be  killed  .  .  .  which  choice 

were  the  worse  ?  j 

I  know  not.     Solve  it  you. 

But  even  the  wolf  must  have  h'-s 
prey  : 
And  even  the  gallows  will  have  \ 
her  food  :  ' 

And  a  king,  my  friend,  will  have  his  , 
way, 
Though  that  way  may  lie  through 
blood. 

My  heart  is  hungry,  and  must  be  fed; 

My  life  is  empty,  and  must  be  filled ; , 
One  is  not  a  Ghoul,  to  live  on  the 
dead  : 

What  then  if  fresh  blood  be  spilled  ? :' 

We  follow  the  way  that  nature  leads.- 

What's  the  very  first  thing  that  we  i 

learn  ?     To  devour.  i 

Each  life  the  death  of  some  other 

needs 

To  help  it  from  hour  to  hour. 


From  the  animalcule  that  swallows 

his  friends, 

Nothing  loath,  in  the  wave  as  iti: 

rolls,  { 

To  man,  as  we  see  him,  this  lawfl 

ascends  ;  ^ 

'Tis  the  same  in  the  world  of  souls,  i 


The  law  of  the  one  is  still  to  absorb  : ) 
To  be  absorbed  is  the  other's  lot  :— 

The  lesser  orb  by  the  larger  orb, 
The  weak  by  the  strong  .  .  .  why ; 
not? 


IN  HOLLAND. 


27^ 


My  want's  at  the  worst :   ko  whj' 
should  I  spare 
(Since  just  such  a  thmg  my  want 
supplies) 
This  httle  girl  with  the  silky  hair, 
And  the  love  iu  her  two  large  eyes  ? 


THE  FUGITIVE. 

ThePwE  is  no  quiet  left  in  life. 
Not  any  moment  brings  me  rest  : 

Forevermore,  from  shore  to  shore, 
1  bear  about  a  laden  breast. 

1  see  new  lands  :  I  meet  new  men  : 
1  learn  strange   tongues  in  novel 
places. 
I  cannot  chase  one  phantom  face 
That  haunts  me,  spite  of  newer 
faces. 

For  me  the  wine  is  poured  by  night, 
And  deep  enough  to  drown  much 
sadness  ; 
But  from  the  cup  that  face  looks  up, 
And  mirth  and  music  turn  to  mad- 
ness. 

There's  many  a  lip  that's  warm  for 
me  : 
Many  a  heart  with  passion  bound- 
ing : 


But   ah,  my   breast,   when   closest 
prest, 
Creeps    to  a  cold    step  near  me 
sounding. 

To  this  dark  penthouse  of  the  mind 

I  lure    the    bat-winged  Sleep   in 

vain  ; 

For  on  his  wings  a  dream  he  brings 

That  deepens  ail  the  dark  with 

pain. 

I  may  write  books  which  friends  will 
praise, 
I  may  win  fame,  I  may  win  treas- 
ure ; 
But  hope  grows  less  with  each  suc- 
cess, 
And  pain  grows  more  with  every 
pleasure. 

The  draughts  I  drain  to  slake  my 
thirst 
But  fuel  more  the  infernal  flame. 
Tliere  tangs  a  sting  in  everything  : — 
The  more  I  change,  the  more  the 
same  ! 

A  man  that  flies  before  the  pest, 
From  wind  to  wind  my  course  is 
whirled. 
This  fly  accurst  stung  lo  first, 
And  drove   her  wild   across  the 
world  I 


THE  SHORE. 

Can  it  be  women  that  walk  in  the  sea-mist  under  the  cliflfs  there  ? 

Wliere.  'neath  a  briny  bow,  creaming,  advances  the  lip 
Of  the  foam,  ana  uui  from  the  sand-choked  anchors,  on  to  the  skiffs  there, 

The  k<ng  ropes  swing  through  the  surge,  as  it  tumbles  ;  and  glitter,  and 
drip. 

All  the  place  in  a  lurid,  glimmering,  emerald  glory. 

Glares  like  a  Titan  world  come  bade  under  heaven  again  : 

Yonder,  up  there,  are  the  steeps  of  liie  sea-kings,  famous  in  story  ; 
But  who  are  they  on  the  beach  ?    They  are  neither  women,  nor  raeiio 

Who  knows,  are  they  the  land's,  or  the  water's,  living  creatures  ? 

Born  of  the  boiliug  sea  ?  nurst  in  the  seething  storms  ? 
With  their  woman's  hair  dishevelled  over  their  stern  male  featurea, 

Striding,  bare  to  the  knee  ;  ma^^niiied  maritime  forms  I 


272         .  THE  WANDEkEk. 


riiey  may  be  the  motliGrs  and  wives,  they  maybe  the  sisters  and  daughters 
Of  men  on  the  dark  mid-seas,  alone  in  those  black-coiled  hulls, 

That  toil  'neath  yon  white  cloud,  whence  the  moon  will  rise  o'er  the  waters 
To-night,  with  her  face  on  fire,  if  the  wind  in  the  evening  lulls. 

But  they  may  be  merely  visions,  such  as  only  sick  men  witness 

(Sitting  as  I  sit  here,  filled  with  a  wild  regret). 
Framed  from  the  sea's  misshapen  spume  with  a  horrible  fitness 

To  the  winds  in  which  they  walk,  and  the  surges  by  which  they  are 
wet  : — 

Salamanders,  sea-wolves,  witches,  warlocks  ;  marine  monsters. 
Which  the  dying  seaman  beholds,  when  the  rats  are  swimming  away, 

And  an  Indian  wind  'gins  hiss  from  an  unknown  isle,  and  alone  stirs 
The  broken  cloud  which  burns  on  the  verge  of  the  dead,  red  day, 

I  know  not.     All  in  my  mind  is  confused  ;  nor  can  I  dissever 
The  mould  of  the  visible  world  from  the  shape  of  my  thoughts  in  me. 

The  Inward  and  Outward  are  fused  :  and,  through  them,  murmur  forever 
The  sorrow  whose  sound  is  the  wind,  and  the  roar  of  the  limitless  sea. 


THE  NOKTH  SEA. 

By  the  gray  sand-hills,  o'er  the  cold  sea-shore  ;  where,  dumbly  peering, 

Pass  the  pale-sailed  ships,  scornfully,  silently  ;  wheeling  and  veering 

Swift  out  of  sight  again  ;  while  the  wind  searches  what  it  finds  never. 

O'er  the  sand-reaches,  bays,  billows,  blown  beaches, — homeless  forever  ! 

And,  in  a  vision  of  the  bare  heaven  seen  and  soon  lost  again, 

Over  the  rolling  foam,  out  in  the  mid-seas,  round  by  the  coast  again, 

Hovers  the  sea-gull,  poised  in  the  wind  above,  o'er  the  bleak  surges. 

In  the  green  briny  gleam,  briefly  revealed  and  gone  ;  .  .  .  fleet,  as  emerges 

Out  of  the  tumult  of  some  brain  where  memory  labors,  and  fretfully 

Moans  all  the  night-long, — a  wild  winge'd  hope,  soon  fading  regretfully. 

Here  walk  the  lost  Gods  o'  dark  Scandinavia,  morning  and  even  ; 

Faint  pale  divinities,  realmless  and  sorrowful,  exiled  from  Heaven  ; 

Burthened  with  memories  of  old  theogonies  ;  each  ruined  monarchy 

-Roaming  amazed  by  seas  oblivious  of  ancient  fealty. 

I^ever,  again  at  the  tables  of  Odin,  in  their  lost  Banquet  Hall, 

Shall  they  from  golden  cups  drink,  hearing  golden  harps,  harping  high 

festival. 
Never  praise  bright-haired  Freya,  in  Vingolf,  for  her  lost  loveliness  ! 
Never,  with  ^gir,  sail  round  cool  moonlit  isles  of  green  wilderness  ! 
Here  on  the  lone  wind,  through  the  long  twilight,  when  day  is  waning, 
Many  a  hopeless  voice  near  the  night  is  heard  coldly  complaining. 
Here,  in  the  glimmering  darkness,  when  winds  are  dropped,  and  not  a 

seaman  sings 
From  cape  or  foreland,  pause,  and  pass  silently,  forms  of  discrowned 

kings. 
With  sweeping,  floating  folds  of  dim  garments  ;  wandering  in  wonder 
Of  their  own  aspect ;  trooping  towards  midnight  ;  feeling  for  thunder. 


IN  HOLLAND. 


273 


Here,  in  the  afternoon  ;  while,  in  her  father's  boat,  heavily  laden, 
Mending  the  torn  nets,  sings  up  the  bleak  bay  the  Fisher-Maiden, 
1  too,  forlornly  wandering,  wandering,  see,  with  the  mind's  eye, 
Shadows  beside  me,   .  .  .    (hearing  the  wave  moan,  hearing  the  wind 

sigh)  .  .  . 
Shadows,  and  images  balefully  beautiful,  of  days  departed  : 

Sounds  of  faint  footsteps,  gleams  of  pale  foreheads,  make  me  sad-hearted  ; 

Sad  for  the  lost,  irretrievable  sweetness  of  former  hours  ; 

Sad  with  delirious,  desolate  odors,  from  faded  flowers  : 

Sad  for  the  beautiful  gold  hair,  the  exquisite,  exquisite  graces 

Of  a  divine  face,  hopelessly  unlike  all  other  faces  ! 

O'er  the  gray  sand-hills  (where  I  sit  sullenly,  full  of  black  fancies), 
Nipt  by  the  sea-wind,  drenched  by  the  sea-salt,  little  wild  pansies 
Flower,  and  freshly  tremble,  and  twinkle  ;  sweet  sisterhoods, 
Lone,  and  how  lovely,  with  their  frail  green  stems,  and  dark  purple 

hoods  ! 
Here,  even  here  in  the  midst  of  monotonous,  fixt  desolation, 
Nature  has  touches  of  tenderness,  beauties  of  young  variation  ; 
Where,  O  my  heart,  in  thy  ruined,  and  desolate,  desolate  places, 
Springs  there  a  floweret,  or  gleams  there  the  green  of  a  single  oasis  ? 
Hidden,  it  may  be  perchance,  and  I  know  it  not  .  .  .  hidden  yet  invio- 
late. 
Pushes  the  germ  of  an  unconscious  rapture  in  me,  like  the  violet 
Which,  on  the  bosom  of  March,  the  snows  cover  and  keep  till  the  coming 
Of  April,  the  first  bee  shall  find,  when  he  wanders,  and  welcome  it  hum- 
ming. 
Teach  me,  thou  North  where  the  winds  lie  in  ambush  ;  the  rains  and  foul 

weather 
Are  stored  in  the  house  of  the  storms  ;  and  the  snow-flakes  are  garnered 

together  ; 
Where  man's  stern,  dominate,  sovereign  intelligence  holds  in  allegiance 
Whatever  blue  Sirius  beholds  on  this  Earth-ballT — all  seas,  and  all  regions  ; 
The  iron  in  the  hill's  heart  ;  the  spirit  in  the  loadstone  ;    the  ice  in  the 

poles  ; 
All  powers,  all  dominions  ;   ships  ;  merchandise  ;    armaments  ;  beasts  ; 

hiuuan  souls  ;  .  .  . 
Teach  me  thy  secrets  :  teach  to  refrain,  to  restrain,  to  be  still  ; 
Teach  me  unspoken,  steadfast  endurance  ; — the  silence  of  Will  ! 


A    NIGHT    IN    THE     FISHER- 
MAN'S HUT. 

PART  I. 
THE   FISHEKMAI^'S   DAUQHTEB. 

If  the  wind  had  been  blowing  the 
Devil  this  way 
Tho  midnight  could  scarcely  have 
grown  more  unholy, 
18 


Or  the  sea  have  found  secrets  more 
wicked  to  say 
To    the   toothless   old   crags  it  is 
hiding  there  wholly. 

I  love  well  the    darkness.    I  love 
well  the  sound 
Of  the  thunder-drift,  howling  this 
way  over  ocean. 


274 


"r/E  WAMDERER. 


For  'tis  though  as    in  nature    my 
spirit  has  found 
A  trouble   akin  to  its   own   free 
emotion. 

The  hoarse  night  may  howl  herself 
silent  for  me. 
When    the    silence    comes,    then 
comes  the  howling  within. 
I  am  drenched  to  my  knees  in  the 
sm^f  of  the  sea, 
And  wet  with  the  salt  bitter  rain 
to  the  skin. 

Let  it  thunder  and  lighten  I    this 
world's  ruined  angel 
Is  but  fooled  by  desire  like  the 
frailest  of  men  ; 
Both  seek  in  hysterics  life's  awful 
evangel, 
Then  both  settle  down  to  life's  si- 
lence again. 

Well  I  know  the  wild  spirits  of  water 
and  air, 
When  the  lean  morrow  turns  up 
its  cynical  gray, 
Will,   baffled,   revert  with  familiar 
despair 
To  their  old  listless  work,  in  their 
old  helpless  way. 

Yonder- s  the  light  in  the  Fisher- 
man's hut  ; 
But    the    old  wolf  himself  is,   I 
know,  off  at  sea. 
And  I  see  through  the  chinks,  though 
the  shutters  be  shut. 
By  the  firelight  that  some  one  is 
watching  for  me. 

Three  years  ago,  on  this  very  same 
n^ight, 
I  walked  in  a  ball-room  of  perfume 
and  splendor 
With  a  pearl-bedecked  lady  below  the 
lamplight  : — 
Now  I  walk  with  the  wild  wind, 
whose  breath  is  more  tender. 

Hark !   the   horses    of   ocean   that 
crouch  at  my  feet, 
They  are  moaning    in    impotent 
pain  on  the  beach  ! 


Lo  !  the  storm-light,  that  swathes  in 
its  blue  winding-sheet 
That  lone  desert  of  sky,  where  the 
stars  are  dead,  each  I 

Holloa,  there  I  open,  you  little  wild 
girl  ! 
Hush,  .  .  .  'tis  her  soft  little  feet 
o'er  the  floor. 
Stay  not  to  tie  up  a  single  dark  curl, 
But  quick  with  the   candle,  and 
open  the  door. 

One  kiss  ?  .  .  .  there's  twenty  I  .  ,  , 
but  first,  take  my  coat  there. 
Salt  as  a  sea-sponge,  and  dripping 
all  through. 
The  old  wolf,  your  father,  is  out  in 
the  boat  there. 
Hark  to  the  thunder  I  .  .  .  we're 
safe, — I  and  you. 

Put  on  the  kettle.    And  now  for  the 
cask 
Of  that  famous  old  rimi  of  your 
fathers,  the  king 
Would  have  clawed  on  our  frontier. 
There,  fill  me  the  flask. 
Ah,   what    a    quick,   little,   neat- 
handed  thing  I 

There's  my  pipe.     Stuff  it  with  black 
negro-head. 
Soon  1  shall  be  in  the  cloud-land 
of  glory. 
Faith,   'tis    better  with  you,   dear, 
than  'fore  the  mast-head, 
With  such  lights  at  the  windows 
of  night's  upper  story  I 

Next,  over  the  round  open  hole  in 
the  shutter 
You  may  pin  up  your  shawl,  .  .  . 
lest  a  mermaid  should  peep. 
Come,  now,  the  kettle's  beginning  to 
splutter, 
And  the  cat  recompoiies  herself 
into  sleep. 

Poor  little  naked  feet,  .  .  .  put  them 
up  there  .  .  . 
Little  white  foam-flakes  I  and  now 
the  soft  head, 


IN  HOLLAND. 


^rz 


Here,  on  my  shoulder  ;   while  all 
the  dark  hair 
Falls    round    us    like    sea-weed. 
What  matter  the  bed 

If  bleep  will  visit  it,  if  kisses  feel 
there 
Sweet  as  they  feel  under  cm*tains 
of  silk  ? 
So,  shut  your  eyes,  while  the  fire- 
light will  steal  there 
O'er  the  black  bear-skin,  the  arm 
white  as  milk  ! 

Meanwhile  I'll  tell  to  you  all  I  re- 
member 
Of  the  old  legend,  the  northern 
romance 
I  heard  of  in  Sweden,  that  snowy 
December 
I  passed  there,  about  the  wild  Lord 
Roseucrantz. 

Then,  when  you're  tired,  take  the 
cards  from  the  cupboard, 
Thumbed  over  by  every  old  thief 
in  our  crew, 
A.nd  I'll  tell  you  your  fortune,  you 
little  Dame  Hubbard  ; 
My  own  has  been  squandered  on 
witches  like  you. 

Knave,  King,  and  Queen,  all  the  vil- 
lanous  pack  of  'em, 
I  know  what  they're  worth  in  the 
game,  and  have  found 
Upon  all  the  trump-cards  the  small 
mark  at  the  back  of  'era. 
The  Devil's  nail-mark,  who  still 
cheats  us  ail  round. 

PART  II. 

THE      LEGEND      OF      LORD      ROSEN- 
CRA.NTZ. 

The  lamps  in  the  castle  hall  bum 
bright, 
And  the  music  sounds,  and  the 
dancers  dance. 
And  lovely  the  young  Queen  looks 
to-night. 
But  pale  is  Lord  Kosencrantz. 


Lord  Rosencrantz  is  always  pale, 
Jiut  never  more  deadly  pale  than 
now  .  .  . 
O,  there  is  a  whisper,  an  ancie^it 
tale, — 
A  rumor,  .  .  .  but  who    should 
know  ? 

He  has  stepped  to  the  dais.     He  h.is 
taken  her  hand. 
And  she  gives  it  him  with  a  tender 
glance. 
And   the  hautboys  sound,   and  the 
dancers  stand. 
And  envy  Lord  Eozencrantz. 

That  jewelled  hand  to  his   lips  Lc 
prest  ; 
And  lightly  he  leads  her  towards 
the  dance : 
And  the  blush  on  the  youns  Queen's 
cheek  confest 
Her  love  for  Lord  Rosencrantz. 

The  moon  at  the  mullioned  window 
shone  ; 
There  a  face  and  a  hand  in  the 
moonlight  glance  ; 
But  that  face  and  that  hand  were 
seen  of  none. 
Save  only  Lord  Rosencrantz. 

A  league  aloof  in  the  forest-land 
There's  a  dead  black  pool,  where  c 
man  by  chance 
.   .  .  Again,  again,  that  beckoning 
han4  ! 
And  it  beckons  Lord  Rosencrantz. 

While  the  young  Queen  turned  lo 
whisper  him. 
Lord  Rosencrantz  from  the  hali 
was  gone  ; 
And  the  hautboys  ceased,  and  the 
lamps  grew  dim, 
And  the  castle  clock  struck  One  ! 


It  is  a  bleak  December  night, 
And   the    snow  on  the  highway 
gleams  by  fits  : 
But  the  fire  on  the  cottage-hear l!d 
burns  bright, 
Where  the  little  maiden  sits. 


37<> 


THE  WANDERER. 


Her    gpiiming-wheel    she  has    laid 
aside  ; 
And  her  blue  eyes  soft  in  the  fire- 
light glance  ; 
As  she  leans  with  love,  and  she  leans 
with  pride, 
On    the    breast    of    Lord  Rosen- 
crantz. 

Mother's  asleep,  up  stairs  in  bed  : 
And  the  black  cat,  she  looks  won- 
drous wise 
As  she  licks  her  paws  in  the  firelight 
red. 
And  glares  with  her  two  green 
eyes  : 

And  the  little  maiden  is  half  afraid, 
And   closely  she    cUngs   to  Lord 
Eosencrantz  ; 
For  she  has  been  reading,  that  little 
maid. 
All  day,  in  an  old  romance, 

A  legend  wild  of  a  wicked  pool 
A  league  aloof  in  the  forest-land, 

And  a  crime  done  there,  and  a  sinful 
soul, 
And  an  awful  face  and  hand. 

**Our    little    cottage    is    bleak  and 
drear," 
Says  the  little  maid  to  Lord  Eosen- 
crantz ; 
*'  And  this  is  the  loneliest  time  of  the 
year. 
And    oft,    when    the    wind,    by 
chance, 

"  The  ivy  beats  on  the  window-pane, 

I  wake  to  the  sound  in  the  gusty 

nights  ; 

And  often,  outside,  in  the  drift  and 

rain. 

There  seem  to  pass  strange  sights. 

"  And  O,  it  is  dreary  here  alone  I 
When  mother's  asleep,  in  bed,  up 
stairs, 
And   the  black  cat,   there,   to   the 
forest  is  gone, 
—Look  at  her,  how  she  glares  1  •* 


"  Thou  Mttle  maiden,  my  heart's  own 
bliss, 
Have  thou  no  fear,  for  I  love  thee 
well  ; 
And  sweetest  it  is  upon  nights  hke 
this, 
When  the  wind,  like  the  blast  of 
hell, 

"  Eoars  up  and  down  in  the  chimneys 
old. 
And  the  wolf  howls  over  the  distant 
snow, 
To  kiss  away  both  the  night  and  the 
cold 
With  such  kisses  as  we  kiss  now." 

*' Ah  !  more  than  life  I  love  thee, 
dear  !" 
Says  the  little  maiden  with  eyes  so 
blue  ; 
"And,  when  thou  art  near,  I  have 
no  fear. 
Whatever  the  night  may  do. 

"  But  O,  it  is  dreary  when  thou  art 
away  ! 
And  in  bed  all  night  I  pray  for 
thee  : 
Now  tell  me,  thou  dearest  heart,  and 
say. 
Dost  thou  ever  pray  for  me  ?  " 

"Thou  little  maiden,  I  thank  thee 
much. 
And  well  I  would   thou  shouldst 
pray  for  me  ; 
But  I  am  a  sinful  man,  and  such 
As  ill  should  pray  for  thee." 

Hist  !  .  .  .  was  it  a  face  at  the  win- 
dow past  ? 

Or  was  it  the  ivy  leaf,  by  cliance, 
Tapping  the  pane  in  the  fitful  blast, 

That  startled  Lord  Eosencrantz  ? 

The  little  maid,  she  has  seen  it  plain, 
For  she  shrieked,  and  down  she 
fell  in  a  swoon  : 

Mutely  it  came,  and  went  again. 
In  the  li^rht  of  the  winter  moon. 


JN  HOLLAND. 


277 


The  young  Queen, — O,  but  her  face 
was  sweet  ! — 
She  died  on  the  night  that  she  was 
wed  : 
And  they  laid  her  out  in  her  wind- 
ing-sheet, 
Stark  on  her  marriage-bed. 

The  little  maiden,  she  went  mad  ; 
But  her  soft  blue  eyes  still  smiled 
the  same. 
With  ever  that  wistful   smile  they 
had  : 
Her  mother,  she  died  of  shame. 

The  black  cat  lived  from  house  to 
house, 
And    every  night    to    the    forest 
hied  ; 
And  she    killed    many  a    rat    and 
mouse 
Before  the  day  she  died. 

And  do  you  wish  that  I  should  de- 
clare 
What  was  the  end  of  Lord  Rosen- 
crantz  ? 
Ah  !  look  in  my  heart,  you  will  find 
it  there, 
— The  end  of  the  old  romance  I 


PART  m. 

DAYBREAK. 

Yes,  you  have  guessed  it.     The  wild 
Eosencrantz, 
It  is  I,  dear,  the  wicked  one  ;  who 
but  I,  maiden  ? 
My  life  is  a  tattered  and  worn-out 
romance, 
And  my  heart  with  the  curse  of 
the  Past  hath  been  laden  : 

For  still,  where  I  wander  or  linger, 
forever 
Comes   a  skeleton  hand    that    is 
beckoning  for  me  ; 
And  still,  dogging  my  footsteps,  life's 
long  Never-never 
Pm'sues  me,  wherever  my  footsteps 
may  be  : 


The  star  of  my  course  hath  been  long 
ago  set,  dear  ; 
And  the  wind  is  my  pilot  wher- 
ever he  blows  : 
He  cannot  blow  from  me  what  I 
would  forget,  dear, 
Nor  blow  to  me  that  which  I  seek 
for, — repose. 

What  !  if  I  were  the  Devil  himself, 
would  you  cling  to  me. 
Bear  my  ill  hmnors,  and  share  my 
wild  nights  ? 
Crouch  by  me,  fear  me  not,  stay  by 
me,  sing  to  me, 
While  the    dark  haunts  us  with 
sounds  and  with  sights  ? 

Follow  me  far  away,  pine  not,  but 
smile  to  me, 
Never  ask  questions,  and  always 
be  gay  ? 
Still  the  dear  eyes  meekly  turned  all 
the  while  to  me. 
Watchful  the  night  through,  and 
patient  the  day  ? 

What  !  if  this  hand,  that  now  strays 
through  your  tresses. 
Three  years  ago  had  been  dabbled 
in  gore  ? 
What !  if  this  lip,  that  your  lip  now 
caresses, 
A  corpse  had  been  pressing  but 
three  years  before  ? 

Well  then,   behold  !  .    .    .   'tis  the 
gray  light  of  morning 
That  breaks  o'er  the  desolate  u'a- 
ters  .  .  .  and  hark  ! 
'Tis   the  first  signal  shot  from  my 
boat  gives  me  warning  : 
The  dark'moves  away  :  and  I  fol- 
low the  lark. 

On  with  your  hat  and  your  cloak  ! 
you  are  mine,  child, 
Mine  and  the  fiend's  that  pursues 
me,  henceforth  ! 
We  mast  be  far,  ere  day  breaks,  o'er 
the  brine,  child  : 
It  may  be  south  I  go,  it  may  bo 
north. 


278 


THE  WANDERER, 


What  !  really  fetching  your  hat  and 
your  cloak,  dear  ? 
Sweet  little  fool.     Kiss  me  quick 
now,  and  laugh  ! 
All  I  have  said  to  you  was  but  a  joke, 
dear  : 
Half  was  in  folly,  in  wantonness 
half. 

PART  IV. 
BREAKFAST. 

Ay,  maiden  :  the  whole  of  my  story 
to  you 
Was  but  a  deception,  a  silly  ro- 
mance : 
From  the  first  to  the  last  word,  no 
word  of  it  true  ; 
And  my  name's  Owen  Meredith, 
not  Eosencrantz. 

I  never  was  loved  by  a  Queen,  I  de- 
clare : 
And  no  little  maiden  for  me  has 

gone  mad  : 
never    committed    a    murder,    I 

swear  ; 
And  I  probably  should  have  been 
hanged  if  I  had, 

I  never  have  sold  to  the  Devil  my 
soul  ; 
And   but  small    is  the    price  he 
would  give  me,  I  know  : 
I  live  much  as  other  folks  live,  on 
the  whole  : 
And  the  worst  thing  in  me's  my 
digestion  .  .  .  heigh  ho  ! 

Lot  us  leave  to  the  night-wind  the 
thoughts  which  he  brings, 
And    leave    to  the  darkness  the 
powers  of  the  dark  ; 
For  my  hopes  o'er  the  sea  lightly 
flit,  like  the  wings 
Of  the  curlews  that  hover    and 
poise  round  my  bark. 

Leave  the  wind   and  the  water   to 
mutter  together 
Their  weird  metaphysical  grief,  as 
of  old, 


For  day's  business  begins,  and  the 
clerk  of  the  weather 
To  the  powers  of  the  air  doth  his 
piu'pose  unfold. 

Be  you  sure    those   dread    Titans,  , 
whatever  they  be. 
That  sport  with  this  ball  in  the 
great  courts  of  Time,  1 

To  play  practical  jokes  upon  you, 
dear,  and  me. 
Will  never  desist  from  a  sport  so 
sublime. 

The  old  Oligarchy  of  Greece,  now 
abolished, 
Were  idle  aristocrats  fond  of  the 
arts, 
But  though  thus  refined,  all  their 
tastes  were  so  polished, 
They    were    turbulent,    dissolute 
gods,  without  hearts. 

They  neglected  their  business,  they 
gave  themselves  airs. 
Read  the  poets   in  Greek,  sipped 
their  wine,  took  their  rest, 
Never     troubling     their     beautiful 
heads  with  affairs, 
And  as  for  their  morals,  the  least 
said,  the  best. 

The  scandal  grew  greater  and  gi-eat- 
er  :  and  then 
An  appeal  to  the  people  was  for- 
mally made. 

The  old  gods  were  displaced  by  the 
suffrage  of  men, 

And  a  popular  government  formed 
in  their  stead. 

But  these  are  high  matters  of  state,— 
I  and  you 
May  be  thankful,  meanwhile,  we 
have  something  to  eat. 
And  nothing,  just  now,  more  impor- 
tant to  do, 
Than  to  sit  down  at  once,  and  say 
grace  before  meat. 

You  may  boil  me  some  coffee,  an 
egg,  if  it's  handy, 
The  sea's  rolling  mountains  just 
now.     I  shall  wait 


TN  HOLLAND. 


279 


For  King  Xeptnne's  mollUsima  tem- 
pora  fandi, 
Wbc    will    presently  lift    up    his 
curly  white  pate, 

Bid  Eurus  and  Xotus  to  mind  their 
own  business, 
And  make  me  a  speech  in  Hexa- 
meters slow  ; 
While  I,  by  the  honor  elated  to  diz- 
ziness, 
f  hall  yield  him  my  offerings,  and 
make  him  my  bow. 

A  DREAM. 

I  HAD  a  quiet  dream  last  night  : 
For  I  dreamed  that  I  was  dead  ; 

Wrapped  around  in  my  grave-clothes 
white. 
With  my  gravestone  at  my  head. 

I  lay  in  a  land  I  have  not  seen, 

In  a  place  I  do  not  know, 
And  the  grass  was  deathly,  deathly 
green 

WTiich  over  my  grave  did  grow. 

The  place  was  as  still  as  still  could 
be, 
With  a  few  stars  in  the  sky. 
Ami  an  ocean  whose  waves  I  could 
not  see. 
Though  I  heard  them  moan  hard 
by. 

There  was  a  bird  in  a  branch  of  yew. 

Building  a  little  nest. 
The  stars  looked  far  and  very  few, 

And  I  lay  all  at  rest. 

There  came  a  footstep  througli  the 
grass, 

And  a  feeling  through  the  mould  : 
And  a  woman  pale  did  over  me  pass. 

With  hair  like  snakes  of  gold. 

She  read  my  name  upon  my  grave  : 
She  read  my  name  with  a  smile. 

A  wild  moan  came  from  a  wandering 
wave, 
But  the  stars  smiled  all  the  while. 


The  stars  smiled  soft.     That  woman 
pale 

Over  my  grave  did  move, 
Singing  all  to  herself  a  talc 

Of  one  that  died  for  love. 

There  came  a  sparrow-hawk  to  the 
tree. 

The  little  bird  to  slay  : 
There  came  a  ship  from  over  the  sea. 

To  take  that  woman  away. 

The  little  bird  I  wished  to  save, 
To  finish  his  nest  so  sweet : 

But  so  deep  I  lay  within  my  grave 
That  I  could  not  move  my  feet. 

That  woman  pale  I  wished  to  keep 
To  finish  the  tale  I  heard  : 

But  within  my  grave  I  lay  so  deep 
That  I  could  not  speak  a  word. 

KING  SOLOMON. 

King  Solomon  stood,  in  his  crown 

of  gold, 
Between    the   pillars,  before  the 

altar 
In  the  House  of  the  Lord.    And  the 

King  was  old. 
And  his  strength  began  to  falter, 
So  that  he  leaned  on  his  ebony  staff. 
Sealed  with  the  seal  of  the  Pente- 

graph. 

All  of  the  golden  fretted  work. 
Without  and  within  so  rich  and 
rare. 
As  high  as  the  nest  of  the  building 
stork. 
Those  pillars  of  cedar  were  :— 
Wrought  up  to  the  brazen  chapiters 
Of  the  Sidonian  artificers. 

And  the  King  stood  still  as  a  carven 
king, 
The  carven  cedarn  beams  below, 
In  his  purple  robe,  with  his  signet- 
ring, 
And  his  beard  as  white  as  snow, 
And  his  face  to  the  Oracle,  where 

the  hymn 
Dies  under  the  wing  of  the  cherubinL 


28o 


THE  WANDERER. 


The  wings  fold  over  tlie  Oracle, 
And  cover  the  heart  and  eyes  of 

God: 
The  Spouse  with  pomegranate,  lily, 

and  bell, 
Is  glorious  in  her  abode  ; 
For  witl\  gold  of  Ophir,  and  scent  of 

myrrh, 
And  purple  of  Tyre,  the  King  clothed 

her. 

By  the  soul  of  each  slumbrous  instru- 
ment 
Drawn  soft  through  the  musical 
misty  air, 

The  stream  of  the  folk  that  came 
and  went. 
For     worship,     and    praise,    and 
prayer, 

Flowed  to  and  fro,  and  up  and  down, 

And  romid  the  King  in  his  golden 
crown. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  as  the  King 
stood  there. 
And  looked  on  the  house  he  had 
built,  with  pride. 

That  the  Hand  of  the  Lord  came 
unaware. 
And  touched  him  ;  so  that  he  died, 

In  his  purple  robe,  with  his  signet- 
ring, 

And  the  crown  wherewith  they  had 
crowned  him  king. 

And    the  stream   of   the  folk  that 

came  and  went 
To  worship  the  Lord  with  prayer 

and  praise. 
Went  softly  ever,  in  wonderment. 

For  the  King  stood  there  always  ; 
AikI  it  was  solemn  and  strange  to 

behold 
That    dead    king    crowned   with    a 

crown  of  gold. 

For  he  leaned  on  his  ebony  staff  up- 
right ; 
And  over  his  shoulders  the  purple 
robe  ; 

And  his   hair  and  his  beard  were 
both  snow-white 


And    the  fear  of  him  filled  the 

globe  ; 
So    that    none    dared    touch    him, 

though  he  was  dead, 
He  looked  so  royal  about  the  head. 

And  the  moons  were  changed  :  and 

the  years  rolled  on  : 
And  the  new  king  reigned  in  the 

old  king's  stead  : 
And  men  were  married  and  buried 

anon  ; 
But    the  King  stood,   stark    and 

dead  ; 
Leaning  upright  on  his  ebony  staff  ; 
Preserved  by  the  sign  of  the  Pente- 

graph. 

And  the  stream  of  life,  as  it  went 

and  came, 
Ever  for  worship  and  praise  and 

prayer, 
Was  awed  by  the  face,  and  the  fear, 

and  the  fame 
Of  the  dead  king  standing  there  ; 
For  his  hair  was  so  white,  and  his 

eyes  so  cold. 
That  they  left  him  alone  with  his 

crown  of  gold. 

So  King  Solomon  stood  up,  dead,  in 

the  House 
Of  the  Lord,  held  there  by  the 

Pentegraph, 
Until  out  from  a  pillar  there  ran  a 

red  mouse. 
And  gnawed    through  his  ebony 

staff  : 
Then,  flat  on  his  face,  the  King  fell 

down  : 
And  they  picked  from  the  dust  a 

golden  crown.* 


*  My  knowledge  of  the  Rabbinical  legend 
which  snggested  this  Poem  is  one  among 
the  many  debts  I  owe  to  my  friend  Kobert 
Browning.  1  hope  these  lines  may  remind 
him  of  hours  which  his  society  rendered 
precious  and  delightful  to  me,  and  which 
are  among  the  most  pleasant  memories  of 
my  life. 


IN  HOLLAND. 


281 


CORDELIA. 

Though  tliou  never  hast  sought  to 

divine  it, 
Though  10  know  it  thou  hast  not  a 

care, 
Yet  my  heart  can  no  longer  confine 

it, 
Though  my  lip  may  be  blanched  to 

declare 
That  I  love  thee,  revere  thee,  adore 

thee, 

0  my  dream,  ray  desire,  my  despair  ! 
Though  in  life  it  may  never  be  given 
To  my  heart  to  repose  upon  thine  ; 
Though  neither   on    earth,   nor  in 

heaven, 
May  the  bliss  I  have  dreamed  of  be 

mine  ; 
Yet  thou  canst  not  forbid  me,  in 

distance, 
And  silence,  and  long  lonely  years. 
To  love  thee,  despite  thy  resistance, 
And  bless  thee,  despite  of  my  tears, 

Ah  me.  couldst  thou  love  me  !  .  .  . 

Believe  me, 
How  I  hang  on  the  tones  of  thy  voice ; 
How  the  least  sign  thou  sighest  can 

giieve  me, 
The  least  smile  thousmilest  rejoice  : 
In  thy  face,  how  I  watch  every  shade 

there  ; 
In   thine   eyes,   how  I  learn   every 

look  ; 
Eow  the  least  sigh  thy  spirit  hath 

made  there 
My  heart  reads,  and  writes  in  its 

book  ! 

And  each  day  of  my  life  my  love 
shapes  me 

From  the  mien  that  thou  wearest. 
Beloved. 

Thou  hast  not  a  grace  that  escapes 
me, 

Xor  a  movement  that  leaves  me  un- 
moved. 

1  live  but  to  see  thee,  to  hear  thee  ; 

I  count  but  the  hours  where  thou 
art  > 


I  ask — only  ask — to  be  near  thee, 
Albeit  so  far  from  thy  heart. 

[n  my  life's  lonely  galleries  never 
Will  be  silenced  thy  lightest  footr- 

fall  : 
For  it  lingers,  and  echoes,  forever 
Until  Memory  mourning  o'er  all. 
All    thy    fair    little    footsteps    are 

bright 
O'er  the  dark  troubled  spirit  in  me, 
As  the  tracts  of  some  sweet  water- 
sprite 
O'er  the  heaving  and  desolate  sea. 
And,    though  cold  and  unkind  be 

thine  eyes, 
Yet,  unchilled  their  unkindness  be- 
low, 
In  my  heart  all  its  love  for  thee  lies, 
Like  a  violet  covered  by  snow. 

Little  child  !  .  .  .  were  it  mine  to 
watch  o'er  thee, 

To  guide,  and  to  guard,  and  to 
soothe  ; 

To  shape  the  long  pathway  before 
.  thee, 

And  all  that  was  rugged  to  smooth ; 

To  kneel  at  one  bedside  by  night. 

And  mingle  our  souls  in  one  prayer; 

And,  awaked  by  the  same  morning- 
light. 

The  same  daily  duties  to  share  ; 

Until  Age  with  his   silver  dimmed 

slowly 
Those  dear  golden  tresses  of  thine; 
And  Memory  rendered  thrice  holy 
The  love  in  this  pour  heart  of  miue  ; 

Ah,  never  .  .  .  (recalling  together. 
By  one  hearth,  in  our  life's  winter 

time. 
Our   youth,   with  its  lost  summer 

weather. 
And  our  love,   in  its    first    golden 

prime). 
Should  those  loved  lips  have  cause 

to  record 
One  word  of  imkindness  from  me, 
Or  my  heart  cease  to  bless  the  least 

word 


282 


THE  WANDERER. 


Of  kindness  onc^  spoken  "by  thee  \ 
But,  whatever  my  path,  and  what- 
ever 
The  future  may  fashion  for  thine, 
Thy  life,  O  believe  me,  can  never. 
My  beloved,  be  indilierent  to  mine. 
When    far  from  the    sight  of    thy 

beauty, 
Pursuing,  unaided,  alone. 
The  path  of  man's  difficult  duty 
In  the  land  where  my  lot  may  be 

thrown  ; 
When  my  steps  move  no  more  in  the 

place 
Where  thou  art :  and  the  brief  days 

of  yore 
Are  forgotten  :  and  even  my  face 
In  thy  life  is  remembered  no  more  ; 
Yet  in  my   life  will  live  thy   least 

feature  ; 
I  shall  mourn  the  lost  light  of  thine 

eyes ; 
And  on  earth  there  will  yet  be  one 

nature 
That  must  yearn  after  thine  till   it 

dies. 

"YE  SEEK  JESUS  OF  NAZ- 
ARETH WHICH  WAS  CRU- 
CIFIED :  HE  IS  RISEN  :  HE  IS 
NOT  HERE." 

Mark  xvi.  6. 

If  Jesus  came  to  earth  again, 
And  walked,  and  talked,  in  field, 
and  street, 

WIjo  would  not  lay  his  human  pain 
Low  at  those  heavenly  feet  ? 

And  leave  the  loom,  and  leave  the 

lute. 

And  leave    the   volume    on    the 

shelf,  [mute, 

To     follow     Him,     unquestioning. 

If  'twere  the  Lord  himself  ? 

How  many  a  brow  with  care  o'er- 
worn, 
How  many  a  heart  with  grief  o'er- 
laden, 
How  many  a  youth  with  love  for- 
lorn. 
How  many  a  mourning  maiden, 


Would  leave    the    baffling    earthly 
prize 
Which  fails  the  earthly,  weak  en- 
deavor. 
To  gaze  into  those  holy  eyes, 
Ajid  drink  content  forever  I 

The  mortal  hope,  I  ask  with  tears 
Of  Heaven,  to  soothe  this  mortal 
pain, — 
The    dream    of    all    my    darkened 
years, — 
I  should  not  cling  to  them. 

The  pride  that  prompts  the  bitter 
jest— 
(Sharp  styptic  of  a  bleeding  heart!) 
Would  fail,  and  humbly  leave  con- 
fest 
The  sin  that  brought  the  smart. 

If  I  might  crouch  within  the  fold 
Of  that  white  robe  (a  wounded 
bird)  ; 

The  face  that  Mary  saw  behold. 
And  hear  the  words  she  heard. 

I  would  not  ask  one  word  of  all 
That  now  my  nature  yearns  to 
know  ; — 

The  legend  of  the  ancient  Fall  ; 
The  source  of  human  woe  : 

What  hopes  in  other  worlds  may 
hide  ; 
What  griefs    yet    unexplored    in 
this  ; 
How  fares  the  spirit  within  the  wide 
Waste  tract  of  that  abyss 

Which  scares  the  heart  (since  all  we 
know 

Of  life  is  only  conscious  sorrow) 
Lest  novel  life  be  novel  woe 

In  death's  undawned  to-morrow  ; 

I  would  not  ask  one  word  of  this, 
If  I  might  only  hide  my  head 

On  that  beloved  breast,  and  kiss 
The  wounds  where  Jesus  bled. 


IN  HOLLAND. 


283 


And  I,  where'er  Ha  went,  would  go, 
Nor    question     where     the     path 
might  lead, 

Enough  to  know  that,  here  below, 
I  walked  with  God  indeed  ! 

His  sheep  along  the  cool,  the  shade, 
By  the  still  watercourse  he  leads, 

Ilis  lambs  upon  His  breast  are  laid. 
His  hungry  ones  He  feeds. 

Safe  in  His  bosom  I  should  lie, 
Hearing,  where'er  His  steps  might 
be. 
Calm  waters,  murmuring,  murmur- 
ing by, 
To  meet  the  mighty  sea. 

If  this  be  thus,  O  Lord  of  mine, 
In  absence  is  Thy  love  forgot  ? 

And  must  I,  where  I  walk,  repine 
Because  I  see  Thee  not  ? 

If  this  be  thus,  if  this  be  thus 
And  our  poor  prayers  yet  reach 
Thee,  Lord, 

Since  we  are  weak,  once  more  to  us 
Keveal  the  Living  Word  ; 

Yet  is  my  heart,  indeed,  so  weak 
My  course  alone  I  dare  not  trace  ? 

Alas  !  I  know  my  heart  must  break 
Before  I  see  Thy  face. 

I  loved,  with  all  my  human  soul, 
A  human  creature,  here  below, 

And,  thovigh  thou  bad'st  thy  sea  to 
roll 
Forever  'twixt  us  two, 

And  though  her  form  I  may  not  see 
Through  all  my  long  and   lonely 
life, 

A  nd  though  she  never  now  may  be 
My  helpmate  and  my  wife, 

Yet  in  my  dreams  her  dear  eyes 
shine, 
Yet  in  my  heart  her  fact;  I  bear. 
And  yet    each    holiest  thought    of 
mine 
I  seem  with  her  to  share. 


But,  Lord,  Thy  face  I  never  saw, 
Nor  ever  heard  Thy  human  voice  : 

My  life,  beneath  an  iron  law, 
Moves  on  without  my  choice. 

No  memory  of  a  happier  time, 
When  in  Thino  arms,  perchance,  I 
slept, 

In  some  lost  ante-natal  clime, 
My  mortal  frame  hath  kept  : 

And  all  is  dark— before — behind. 

I  cannot  reach  Thee,  where  thou 
art, 
I  cannot  bring  Thee  to  my  mind, 

Nor  clasp  Thee  to  my  heart. 

And  this  is  why,  by  night  and  day. 
Still  with  so  many  an  unseen  tear 

These  lonely  lips   have  learned  to 
pray 
That  God  would  spare  me  here, 

While  yet  my  doubtful  course  I  go 
Along  the  vale  of  mortal  years. 

By  life's  dull  stream,  that  will  not 
flow 
As  fast  as  flow  my  tears, 

One  human  hand,  my  hand  to  take: 
One  hiunan  heart,   my    own    to 
raise  : 

One  loving  hiunan  voice,  to  break 
The  silence  of  my  days. 

Saviour,   if    this    wild    prayer    be 
wrong. 
And  what  I  seek  I  may  not  find, 
O,  make  more  hard,  and  stern,  and 
strong,. 
The  framework  of  my  mind  X 

Or,  nearer  to  me,  in  the  dark 
Of  life's  low  iiours,  one  moment 
stand. 

And  give  me  keener  eyes  to  mark 
The  moving  of  Thy  hand. 

TO  CORDELIA. 

I  DO  not  blame  thee,  that  my  life 
Is  lonelier  now  than  even  before  ; 

For  hadst  thou  been,   indeed,   my 
wife, 
(Vain  dream  that  cheats  no  more !) 


284 


THE  WANDEREf^. 


The  fate,  which  from  my  earliest 

years  [tread, 

Kath  made  so  dark  the  path  I 

Had    taught    thee    too,   perchance, 

such  tears 

As  I  have  learned  to  shed. 

And  that  fixed  gloom,  which  souls 
like  mine 
Are  schooled  to  wear  with  stub- 
born pride, 
Had  cast    too    dark    a    shade  o'er 
thine, — 
Hadst  thou  been  by  my  side. 

I  blame  thee  not,  that  thou  shouldst 
flee 
From  paths  where  only  weeds  have 
sprung, 
Though  loss  of  thee  is  loss  to  me 
Of  all  that  made  youth  young. 

For  'tis  not  mine,  and  'twas    not 
thine. 
To  shape  our  course  as  first  we 
strove  : 
And  powers  which  I  could  not  com- 
bine 
Divide  me  from  thy  love. 

Alas  !  we  cannot  choose  our  lives, — 
We    can    but    bear    the    hmthen 
given. 

In  vain  the  feverish  spirit  strives 
With  unrelenting  heaven. 

For  who  can  bid  those  tyrant  stars 
The  lii justice  of  tlieir  laws  repeal  ? 

Why  ask  who  makes  our  prison  bars. 
Since  they  are  made  of  steel  ? 

The    star  that  rules  my  darkened 
hour 
Is    fixt  in    reachless    spheres  on 
high  : 
The  curse  which    foils  my  baffled 
power 
Is  scrawled  across  the  sky. 

My  heart  knows  ail  it  felt,  and  feels: 
But  more  than  this  I  shall  not 
know, 

Till  he  that  made  the  heart  reveals 
Why  mine  must  suffer  eo. 


1  only  know  that,  never  yet. 

My    life    hath    found  what  others 

find, — 
That  peace  of  heart  which  will  not 

fret 
The  fibres  of  the  mind. 

I  only  know  that  not  for  me 
The  human  love,  the  clasp,  the 
kiss  ; 

My  love  in  other  worlds  must  be, — 
'iVhy  was  I  born  in  this  ? 

The  bee  is  framed  to  find  her  food 
In  every  wayside  flower  and  bell, 

And  build  withhi  the  hollow  wood 
Her  own  ambrosial  cell  '• 

The  spider  hath  not  learned  her  art, 
A  home  in  ruined  towers  to  spin  ; 

But  what  it  seeks,   my  heart,  my 
heart 
Is  all  unskilled  to  win. 

The  world  was  filled,  ere  I  was  bom, 
With  man  and  maid,  with  bower 
and  brake, 

And  nothing  but  the  barren  thorn 
Remained  for  me  to  take  : 

I  took  the  thorn,  I  wove  it  round, 
I  made  a  piercing  crown  to  wear  : 

My   own    sad    hands    myself    have 
crowned, 
Lord  of  my  own  despair. 

That  which  we  are,  we  are.    'Twere 
vain 
To  plant  with  toil  what  will  not 
grow. 
The  cloud  will  break,  and  bring  the 
rain. 
Whether  we  reap  or  sow. 

I  cannot  turn  the  thunder-blast, 
Nor  pluck  the  levin's  lurid  root  ; 

I  cannot  change  the  changeless  past. 
Nor  make  the  ocean  mute. 

And  if  the  holt  of  death  must  fall 
Where,   bare  of  head  I  walk  my 
way. 

Why  let  il  fall  !    I  will  not  call 
To  bid  the  Thunderer  stay= 


IN  HOLLAND. 


28s 


*Tis  much  to  know,  wbate'er  betide 
The  pilgrim  path  I  pace  alone, 

Thou  wilt  not  miss  me  from  thy  side 
When  its  brief  course  is  done. 

Hadst  thou  been  mine, — when  skies 
were  drear 
And  waves  were  rough,  for  thy 
sweet  sake 
I  should  have  found  in  all  some  fear 
My  inmost  breast  to  shake  : 

But  now,  his  fill  the  blast  may  blow. 
The   sea  may  rage,   the   thunder 
roll. 

For  every  path  by  which  I  go 
Will  reach  the  self-same  goal. 

Too  proud  to  fly,  too  weak  to  cope, 
I  yet  will  wait,  nor  bow  my  head. 

Those  who  have  nothing  left  to  hope, 
Have  nothing  left  to  dread. 


A  LETTER  TO  CORDELIA. 

Perchance,  on  earth,  I  shall  not 
see  thee  ever 
Ever    again  :    and  my  unwritten 
years 
Are  signed  out  by  that  desolating 
"  Never," 
And  blurred  with  tears. 

'Tis  hard,  so  young — so  young  as  I 
am  still, 
To  feel  forevermore  from  life  de- 
part 
All  that  can  flatter  the  poor  human 
will. 
Or  fill  the  heart. 

Yet  there  was  nothing  in  that  sweet, 
and  brief, 
And  perisht  intercourse,  now 
closed  for  me. 
To  add  one  thought  unto  my  bitter- 
est grief 
Upbraiding  thee. 

'Tis  somewhat  to  have  knovni,  al- 
beit in  vain, 
Ono  woman  in  this  sorrowful  bad 
eaxth, 


Whose  very  loss  can  yet  bequeath 
to  pain 
New  faith  in  worth. 

If  I  have  overrated,  in  the  wild 
Blind  heat  of  hope,  the  sense  of 
aught  which  hath 
From  the  lost  vision  of  thy  beauty 
smiled 
On  my  lone  path, 

My  retribution  is,  that  to  the  last 
I  have  o'errated,  too,  my  power  to 
cope 
With  this  fierce  thought  .  .  .  that 
life  must  all  be  past 
Without  life's  hope  ; 

And  I  would  bless  the  chance  which 
let  me  see 
Once  more  the  comfort  of  thy  face, 
although 
It  were  with  beauty  never  bora  for 
me 
That  face  should  glow. 

To  see  thee — all  thou  wilt  be— loved 
and  loving — 
Even    though    another's — in    the 
years  to  come — 
To  watch,  once  more,  thy  gracious 
sweetness  moving 
Through  its  pure  home, — 

Even  this  would  seem  less  desolate, 
less  drear. 
Than  never,  never  to  behold  thee 
more — 
Never  on  those  beloved  lips  to  hear 
The  voice  of  yore  ! 

These  weak  words,  O  my  friend,  fell 
not  more  fast 
Than  the  weak  scalding  tears  that 
with  them  fell. 
Nor  tears,  nor  words  came,  when  I 
saw  thee  last  .  .  . 
Enough  !  .  .  .  Farewell. 

Farewell.      If    that    dread    Power 
which  fashioned  man 
To  till  this  planet,  free  to  search 
and  find 


256 


THE  WANDERER. 


The  secret  of  his  source  as  best  he 
can, 
In  his  own  mind, 

Hath    any    care,    apart    from    that 
which  moves 
Earth's  myriads  through  Time's 
ages  as  they  roll, 
For  any  single  human  life,  or  loves 
One  separate  soul, 

May  He,  whose  wisdom  portions  out 
for  me 
The    moonless,    changeless    mid- 
night of  the  heart, 
Still  all  his  softest  sunshine  save  for 
thee, 
Where'er  thou  art  : 

And  if,  indeed,  not  any  human  eyes 
From  human  tears  be  free, — may 
Sorrow  bring 
Only  to  thee  her  April-rain,  whose 
sighs 
Soothe  flowers  in  Spring. 


FAILURE. 

I  HAVE  seen  those  that  wore  Heav- 
en's armor  worsted  : 
I  have  heard  Truth  lie  : 
Seen  Life, beside  the  founts  for  which 
it  thirsted. 
Curse  God  and  die  : 

I  have  felt  the  hand,  whose  touch 
was  rapture,  braiding 
Among  my  hair 
Love's  choicest  flowerets,  and  have 
found  how  fading 
Those  garlands  were  : 

I  have  watched  my  first  and  holiest 
hopes  depart, 
One  after  one  : 
I  have  held  the  hand  of  Death  upon 
my  heart. 
And  made  no  moan  : 

I  have  seen  her  whom  life's  whole 
picrifice 
\Va»  made  to  keep. 


Pass  coldly  by  me  with  a  stranger's 
eyes, 
Yet  did  not  weep  : 

Now  even  my  body  fails  me  ;   and 
my  brow 
Aches  night  and  day  : 
I   am  weak  with  over-work  :  ho^ 
can  I  now 
Go  forth  and  play  ? 

What  !  now  that  Youth's  forgotten 
aspirations 
Are  all  no  more, 
Rest  there,  indeed,  all  Youth's  glad 
recreations, 
— An  untried  store  ? 

Alas,  what  skills  this  heart  of  sad 
experience. 
This  frame  o'erwrought. 
This  memory  with  life's  naotion  all 
at  variance, 
This  aching  thought  ? 

How  shall  I  come,  with  these,  to 
follow  pleasure 
Where  others  find  it  ? 
Will   not  their  sad  steps  mar  the 
merriest  measure. 
Or  lag  behind  it  ? 

Still  must  the  man  move  sadlier  for 
the  dreams 
That  mocked  the  boy  : 
And,  having  failed  to  achieve,  must 
still,  it  seems, 
Fail  to  enjoy. 

It  is  no  common  failure,   to    havo 

failed 

Wliere  man  hath  given 

A  whole  life's  effort  to  the  task  as 

sailed — 

Spent  earth  on  heaven. 

If  error  and  if  faihire  enter  here. 
What  helps  repentance  ? 

Remember  this,  O  Lord,  in  tby  ^<& 
vere 
Last  sentence  1 


FN  HOLLAND. 


287 


MISANTHROPOS. 

DacTa  Kovis   koX  •na.vTa.   ycAwt    tai    tovto.   to 

Day's  last  light  is  dying  out. 

All  the  place  grows  dim  and  drear: 
See  !  the  grisly  hat's  ahout. 

There  is  nothing  left  to  fear  ; 
Little  left  to  doubt. 

Not  a  note  of  music  flits 

O'er  the  slackened  harpstrings  yon- 
der 
From  the  skeleton  that  sits 

By  the  broken  hai-p,  to  ponder 
(While  the  spider  knits 

"Webs  in  each  black  socket-hole) 
Where  is  all  the  music  fled. 

Music,  hath  it,  then,  a  goal  ?  .  .  . 
Broken  harp,  and  brainless  head  ! 

Silent  song  and  soul  ! 

Not  a  light  in  yonder  sky, 
Save  that  single  wicked  star, 

Leering  with  its  wanton  eye 
Through    the  shattered  window- 
bar  ; 

Come  to  see  me  die  ! 

All,  save  this,  the  monstrous  night 

Hath  erased  and  blotted  bare 
As  the  fool's  brain  .  .  .  God's  last 
light 
Winking    at    the    Fiend's    work 
there, — 
Wrong  made  worse  by  right  ! 

Gone  the  voice,  the  face,  of  yore  ! 

Gciie  the  dream  of  golden  hair  ! 
Gone  the  garb  that  Falsehood  wore  ! 

Gone  the  shame  of  being  bare  ! 
We  may  close  the  door. 

All  the  guests  are  slunk  away. 

Not  a  footstep  on  the  stairs  ! 
Not  a  friend  here,  left  to  say 

"  Aman  "  to  a  sinner's  prayers, 
If  he  cared  to  pray  ! 

Gone  is  Friendship's  friendliness, 

After  Love's  fidelity  : 
Gone  is  honor  in  the  mess 

Spat  upon  by  Charity  : 
Faith  has  fled  Distress 


Those  grim  tipstaves  at  the  gate 
Freely  may  their  work  begin. 

Let  them  in  !  they  shall  not  wait. 
There  is  little  now  within 

Left  for  Scorn  and  Hate. 

O,  no  doubt  the  air  is  foul ! 

'Tis  the  last  lamp  spits  and  stinks, 
Shuddering  downward  in  the  bowl 

Of  the  socket,  from  the  brinks. 
What's  a  burned-out  soul  ? 

Let  them  all  go,  unreproved  ! 

For  the  som-ce  of  tears  is  dried. 
What !  .  .  .  One  rests  ?  .  .  .  hath 
nothing  moved 

That  pale  woman  from  my  side, 
Whom  I  never  loved  ? 

You,  with  those  dim  eyes  of  yours, 
Sadder  than  all  eyes  save  mine  ! 

That  dim  forehead  which  immures 
Such    faint    helpless  griefs,   that 
pine 

For  such  hopeless  cures  ! 

Must  you  love  me,  spite  of  loathing  ? 

Can't  you  leave  me  where  I'm  ly- 
ing? 
O,  .  .  .  you  wait  for  our  betrothing  ? 

I  escape  you,  though, — by  dying  ! 
Lay  out  my  death-clothing. 

Well  I  would  that  your  w-hite  face 
Were  abolisht  out  of  sight. 

With  the  glory  and  the  grace 
Swallowed  long  ago  in  night, — 

Gone, — without  a  trace  ! 

Reach  me  down  my  golden  harp. 
Set  it  here,  beside  my  knee. 

Never  fear  that  I  shall  warp 
All  the  chords  of  ecstasy, 

Striking  them  too  sharp  ! 

Crown  me  with  my  crown  of  flowers. 

Faded  roses  eveiy  one  ! 
Pluckt  in  those  long-perisht  bowerS; 

By  the  nightshade  overrun, — 
Fit  for  brows  like  ours  ! 

Fill  me,  now,  my  golden  cup. 

Pour  the  black  wine  to  the  brim  . 
Till  within  me,  while  I  sup. 


288 


THE  WANDERER. 


All  the  fires,  long  quenched  and 
dim, 
Flare,  one  moment,  up. 

I  will  sing  you  a  last  song. 

I  will  pledge  you  a  last  health  .  .  . 
Here's  to  weakness  seeming  strong  ! 

Herets  to  Want  that  follows 
Wealth  ! 
Here's  to  Right  gone  wrong  ! 

Curse  me  now  the  Oppressor's  roa. 
And  the  meanness  of  the  weak  ; 

And  the  fool  that  apes  the  nod  ;  • 
And  the  world  at  hide  and  seek 

With  the  wrath  of  God. 

Dreams  of  man's  unvalued  good 
By  mankind's  unholy  means  ! 

Curse  the  people  in  their  mud  ! 
And  the  wicked  Kings  and  Queens, 

Lying  by  the  Rood. 

Fill  !  to  every  plague  .  .  .  and  first, 
Love,  that  breeds  its  own  decay  ; 

Rotten,  ere  the  blossom  burst. 
Next,  the  friend  that  slinks  away, 

When  you  need  him  worst. 

O  the  world's  inhuman  ways  ! 

And  the  heartless  social  Ije  ! 
And  the  coward,  cheapening  praise  I 

And  the  patience  of  the  sky, 
Lighting  such  bad  days  ! 


Cursed  be  the  heritage 

Of  the  sins  we  have  not  sinned  I 
Curse'd  be  this  boasting  age, 

And  the  blind  that  lead  the  blind 
O'er  its  creaking  stage  I 

O  the  vice  within  the  blood, 
And  the  sin  within  the  sense  ! 

And  the  fallen  angelhood, 
With  its  yearnings,  too  immense 

To  be  understood  ! 

Curse  the  hound  with  beaten  hide, 
When    he    turns    and    licks    the 
hand. 

Curse  this  woman  at  my  side  1 
And  the  memory  of  the  land 

Where  my  first  love  died. 

Curse'd  be  the  next  and  most 

(With  whatever  curse  most  kills), 

Me  .  .  .  the  man  whose  soul  is  lost  ; 
Fouled  by  each  of  all  these  ills, — 

Filled  with  death  and  dust  I 

Take  away  the  harp  of  gold. 
And  the  empty  wine-cup  too. 

Lay  me  out :  for  I  grow  cold. 
There  is  something  dim  in  view, 

Which  must  pass  untold  : — 

Something     dim,     and     something 
vast, — 

Out  of  reach  of  all  I  say. 
Language  ceases  .  .  .  husht,  aghast. 

What  am  I,  to  curse  or  pray  ? 
God  succeeds  at  last  1 


BOOK   VL— PALINGENESIS 


A  PRAYER. 

My  Saviour,  dare  I  come  to  Thee, 
Who  let  the  little  children  come  ? 
But  I  ?  .  .  ,  my  soul  is  faint  in  me  I 
I  come  from  wandering  to  and  fro 
This  weary  world.     There  still  his 

round 
The    Accuser    goes :    but  Thee    I 

found 


Not  anywhere.     Both  joy  and  woe 
Have  passed  me  by.^   I  am  too  weak 
To  grieve  or  smile.  *  And  yet  I  know 
That  tears  lie  deep  in  all  I  do. 
The  homeless  that  are  sick  for  home 
Are  not  so  wretched.     Ere  it  break, 
Receive  my  heart  ;  and  for  the  sakd, 
Not  of  my  sorrows,  but  of  Thine, 
Bend  down  Thy  holy  eyes  on  oinOj 
Which  are  too  full  of  misery 


PALINGENESIS. 


289 


To  see  Thee  clearly,  though  they 

seek. 
Yet,  if  I  heard  Thy  voice  say  .  .  . 

"  Come," 
So  might  I,  dying,  die  near  Thee. 
It  shames  me  not,  to  have  passed  by 
The  temple-doors  in  every  street 
Where    men   profaned  Thee  :    but 

that  I 
Have    left  neglected,  choked    with 

weeds. 
Defrauded  of  its  incense  sweet 
From     holy     thoughts     and    loyal 

deeds, 
The  fane  Thou  gavest  me  to  en- 
shrine 
Thee  in,   this    wretched    heart    of 

mine. 
The  Satyr  there  hath  entered  in  ; 
The   Owl  that  loves  the    darkened 

hour  ; 
And  obscene  shapes  of  night  and 

sin 
Still  haunt,  where  God  designed  a 

bower 
For  angels. 

Yet  I  will  not  say 
How  oft  I  have  aspired  in  vain, 
How  toiled  along  the  rugged  way, 
And  held  my  faith  above  my  pain, 
For    this    Thou    knowest.      Thou 

knowest  when 
I  faltered,  and  when  I  was  strong  ; 
And  how  from  that  of  other  men 
My  fate    was    different :     all    the 

wrong 
Which  devastated  hope  in  me  : 
The    ravaged    years  ;    the    excited 

heart, 
Til  at  found  in  pain  its  only  part 
Of  love  :  the  mastar  misery 
Tl'at  shattered  all  my  early  years, 
From  which,  in  vain,  I  sought  to 

flee  : 
Thou  knowest  the  long  repentant 

tears. 
Thou  heard' st  me  cry  against  the 

spheres. 
So  sharp  my  anguish  seemed  to  be  I 
All  this  Thou  knowest.     Though  I 

should  keep 


Silence,  Thou  knowest  my  hands 

were  free 
From  sin,  when  all  things  cried  to 

me 
To  sin.     Thou  knowest  that,  had  I 

rolled 
My  soul  in  hell-flame  fifty-fold, 
My  sorrow  could  not  be  more  deep. 
Lord  !    there  is  nothing  hid  from 

Thee. 

EUTHANASIA. 

(WRITTEN  ATTEK  A  SEVEKE    ILLNESS.) 

Speixg  to  the  world,  and  strength 
to  me,  returns  ; 
And  flowers  return, — but  not  the 
flowers  I  knew. 
I  live  :  the  tire   of  life  within  me 
burns  ; 
But  all  my  life  is  dead.     The  land 
I  view 
I  know  not  ;  nor  the  life  which  I  re- 
gain. 
Within  the  hollow  of  the  hand  of 

death 
I  have  lain  so  long,  that  now    I 
draw  the  'nreath 
Of  life  as  unfamiliar,  and  with  pain^ 

Of  life  :  but  not  the  life  which  is  uu 
more  ; — 
That  tender,  tearful,  warm,   and 
passionate  thing  ; 
That  wayward,  restless,  wistful  life 
of  yore  ; 
Which  now  lies,  cold,  benealli  the 
clasp  of  Spring, 
As  last  year's  leaves  :  but  such  a  life 
as  seems 
A  strange  new-comer,  coy  and  all- 

afraid. 
No  motion  leaves  the  heart  where 
it  is  laid. 
Save  when  the  past  returns  to  me  in 
dreams. 

In  dreams,  like  memories  of  another 
world : 
The  beauty,  and  the  pasaion,  and 
the  pain, 


290 


THE  WANDERER. 


The  wizardry  by  which  my  youth 
was  whirled 
i^ound  vain  desires, — so  violent, 
yet  so  vain  I 
The  love  which  desolated  Ufe,  yet 
made 
So  dear  its  desolation  :  and  the 

creeds 
Which,  one  by  one,  snapped  in  my 
hold  like  reeds. 
Beneath  the  weight  of  need  upon 
them  laid  I 

For  each  man  dreams  his  own  sand- 
house  secure 
While  life's  wild  waves  are  lulled; 
yet  who  can  say, 

If  yet  his  faith's  foundations  do  en- 
dure, 

It  is  not  that  no  wind  hath  blown 
that  way  ? 

Must  we    even  for    their   beauty's 
sake,  keep  furled 

Our  fairest  creeds,  lest  earth  should 
sully  them. 
And  take  what  ruder  help  chance 
sends,  to  stem 

The   rubs   and  wrenchings   of  this 
boisterous  world  ? 

Alas  i  'tis  not  the  creed  that  saves 
the  man  : 
It  is  the  man  that  justifies  the 
creed  : 
And  each  must  save  his  own  soul  as 
he  can. 
Since  each  is  burthencd  with  a 
different  need. 
Eound  each    the    bandit    passions 
lurk  ;  and,  fast 
And  furious,  swarm  to  strip  the 

pilgrim  bare  ; 
Then,   oft,   in  lonely  places    un- 
aware, 
Fall  on  him,  and  do  murder  him  at 
last. 

And  oft  the  light  of  truth,  which 
through  the  dark 
We  fetched  such  toilful   compass 
to  detect, 


Glares  through  the  broken  cloud  on 
the  lost  bark. 
And  shows  the  rock  —  too  late, 
when  all  is  wrecked  I 
Not  from   one  watch-tower  o'er  the 
deep,  alone. 
It  streams,  but  lightens  there  and 

lightens  here 
With   lights  so  nmnberless   (like 
heaven's  eighth  sphere) 
That  all  their  myriad  splendors  seem 
but  one. 

Time  was,  when  it  seemed  possible 
to  be 
(Then,  when  this  shattered  prow 
first  felt  the  foam) 
Columbus  to  some  far  Philosophy, 
And  bring,  perchance,  the  golden 
Indies  liome. 
O  siren  isles  of  the  enchanted  main 
Through  which  I  lingered  I  altars, 
temples,  groves. 
Whelmed  in  the  salt  sea  wave,  that 

rolls  and  roves 
Around  each  desolated  lost  domain  \ 

Over  all  these  hath  passed  the  deluge. 
And, 
Saved  from  the  sea,  forlornly  face 
to  face 
With  the  gaunt  ruin  of  a  world,  I 
stand. 
But  two  alone  of  all  that  perisht 
race 
Survive  to  share  with  me  my  wan- 
derings ; 
Doubt  and    Experience.       These 

my  steps  attend. 
Ever  ;  and  oft  above  my  harp  they 
bend. 
And,  weeping  with  me,  weep  among 
its  strings. 

Yet, — saved,  though  in  a  land   un- 
consecrate 
By  any  memory,  it  seems  good  to 
me 
To  build  an  altar  to  the  Lord  ;  and 
wait 
Some  token,  either  from  the  land 
'  or  sea. 


PALIJVGEJ^ESTS. 


291 


To  point  me    to    my    rest,  which 
should  be  near. 
Rude  is  the  work,  and   simple  is 

my  skill  ; 
Yet,  it  the  hand  could  answer  to 
the  will, 
This  pile  should  lack  not  incense. 
Father,  hear 

M  y  cry  unto  thee.     Make  thy   cov- 
enant 
Fast  with  my  spirit.     Bind  witliin 
Thy  bow 
The  whole  horizon  of  my  tears.     I 
pant 
For    Thy  refreshing.      Bid    Thy 
fountains  flow 
In  this  dry  desert,  where  no  springs 
I  see. 
Before  I  venture  in  an  unknown 

land, 
Here  will  I  clear  the  ground  on 
which  I  stand. 
And  justify  the  hope  Thou  gavest 
me. 

I    cannot    make    quite    clear  what 
comes  and  goes 
In  fitful  light,  by  v/aning  gleams 
descried. 
The  Spirit,  blowing  where  it  listeth, 
blows 
Only  at  times,  some  single  fold 
aside 
Of  that  great  veil  which  hangs  o'er 
the  Unknown  : 
0  the  fe 
that  fall. 
Reveal  enough,  in  part,  for  hope  in 
all  : 
And   that  seems    surest  which  the 
least  is  shown. 

God  is  a  spirit.     It  is  also  said 
Man  is  a  spirit.     Can  I  therefore 
deem 
The  two  in  nature  separate  ?    The 
made 
Hath  in  it  of  the  Maker.     Hence  I 
seem 
A  step  towards  light ; — since  'tis  the 
property 


Of  spirit  to  possess  itself  in  all 
It  is  possest  by  ; — halved  yet  in- 
tegral ; 
One  person,  various  personality. 

To  say  the  Infinite  is  that  which  lies 
Beyond  the  Finite,  .  .  .  were  it 
not  to  set 
A  border  mark  to  the  immensities  ? 
Far  as  these  mortal  senses  measure 
yet 
Their  little   region   of   the  mighty 
plan. 
Through  valves  of  birth  and  death 

— are  heard  forever 
The   finite  steps    of    iii.'inite    en- 
deavor 
Moving    through    Nature    and    the 
mind  of  man. 

If    man, — the  finite    spirit, — in  in- 
finity 
Alone  can   find  the  truth  of  his 
ideal, 
Dare  I  not  deem  that  infinite  Div- 
inity 
Within  the  finite  must  assume  the 
real? 
For  what  so  feverish  fancy,  reckless 
hurled 
Through  a  ruined  brain,  did  ever 

yet  descry 
A  symbol  sad  enough  to  signify 
The  conscious  God  of  an  unconscious 
world  ■? 

Wherefore,  thus  much  perceived,  to 
recognize 
In  God,  the  infinite  spirit  of  Unity, 
In  man,  the  finite  spirit,  here  implies 
An    interchanged     perception  ;— 
Deity 
Within  humanity  made  manifest  : 
Not  here  man  lonely,  there  a  lonely 

God  ; 
But,  in  all  paths  by  human  nature 
trod. 
Infinity  in  Finity  exprest. 

This  interchange,  upon  man's  part, 
IciU 
Eoligioj.'  •  revelation  on  the  part 


292 


THE  WANDERER. 


Of  Deity  :  wherefrom  there  seems  to 
fall 
'Tis  consequence  (the  point  from 
which  I  start) 
If  God  and  man  be  one  (a  unity 
Of  which  religion  is  the  human 

side) 
This  must  in  man's  religion  be 
descried, 
A  consciousness  and  a  reality. 

Whilst  man  in  nature  dwells,   his 
God  is  still 
In  nature  ;  thence,  in  time,  there 
intervenes 
The  Law  :  he  learns  to  fortify  his 
will 
Against  his  passions,  by  external 
means  : 
And  God  becomes  the  Lawgiver:  but 
when 
Corruption  in  the  natural  state  we 

see. 
And  in  the  legal  hopeless  tyranny, 
We  seem  to  need  (if  needed  not  till 
then) 

That  which  doth  uplift  nature,  and 
yet  makes 
More  light  the  heavy  letter  of  the 
law. 
Then  for  the  Perfect  the  Imperfect 
aches, 
Till  love  is  bom  upon  the  deeps  of 
awe. 
Tet  what  of  this,  .  .  .  that  God  in 
man  may  be. 
And  man,   though    mortal,   of   a 

race  divine. 
If  no  assurance  lives  which  may 
incline 
The  heart  of  man  to  man's  divinity  ? 

"There  is  no  God"  .  .  .  the  Fool 
saith — to  his  heart, 
Yet  shapes  a  godhead  from  his  in- 
tellect. 
Is  mind  than  heart  less  human,  .  .  . 
that  we  part 
Thought  from  affection,  and  from 
mind  erect 
A  deity  mert^.iy  intellectual  ? 


If  God  there  be,  devoid  of  sym- 
pathy 
For  man,  he  is  not  man's  divinity. 
A  God  unloving  were  no  God  at  all. 

This  felt,  ...  I  ask  not ...  •'  What 
is  God?"  but  "What 
Are  my  relations  with  Him  ?  "  this 
alone 
Concerns  me  now  :  since,  if  I  know 
this  not. 
Though  I  should  know  the  sources 
of  the  sun, 
Or  what  within  the  hot  heart  of  the 
earth 
Lulls  the  soft  spirit  of  the  fire, 

although 
The    mandate    of  the  thunder  I 
should  know, 
To  me  my  knowledge  would  be  noth- 
ing worth. 

What  message,  or  what  mcsscngci  to 
man  ? 
Whereby  shall  revelation  reach 
the  soul  ? 
For   who,   by   searching,   finds   out 
God  ?    How  can 
My  utmost  steps,  unguided,  gain 
the  goal 
Of  necessary  knowledge  ?    It  is  clear 
I  cannot  reach  the  gates  of  heaven, 

and  knock 
And  enter  :  though  I  stood  upon 
the  rock 
Like  Moses,  God  must  speak  ere  I 
can  hear, 

And  touch  me  ere  I  feel  him.     He 
must  come 
To  me  (I  cannot  join  Him  in  the 
cloud),  [home  ; 

Stand  at  the  dim  doors  of  my  mortal 
Lift  the  low  latch  of  life  ;   and 
enter,  bowed 
Unto   this    earthly  roof ;   and   sit 
within 
The  circle  of  the  senses  ;  at  the 

hearth 
Of  the  affections  ;  be  my  guest  on 
earth, 
Loving  my  love;  and  sorro'ving  in 
my  sin. 


PALINGENESIS. 


293 


Since,  though  I  stripped  Divinity,  in 

thought, 
From  passion,  which  is  personal- 
ity, 
My    God    would    ctill    be    human : 
though  I  sought 
In  the  bird's  wing  or  in  the  in- 
sect's eye. 
Rather  than  in  this  broken  heart  of 
mine, 
His  presence,  human  still :  human 

would  be 
All    hirnian    thought    conceives. 
Humanity, 
Being  less  human,  is  not  more  divine. 

The  soul,  then,  cannot  stipulate,  or 
refuse  [bassy. 

The  fashion  of  the  heavenly  em- 
Since  God  is  here  the  speaker,  He 
must  choose 
The  words  He  wills.     Already  I 
descry 
That  God  and  man  are  one,  divided 
here. 
Yet  reconcilable.     One  doubt  sur- 
vives. 
There  is  a  dread  condition   to 
men's  lives  : 
We    die  :    and,   from  its    d-Mth,   it 
would  appear 

Our    nature  is    not  one    with    the 
divine. 
Not  so.     The  Man-God  dies  ;  and 
by  his  death 
Doth  with  his    own  immortal  life 
combine 
The  spirit  pining  in  this  mortal 
breath.  [ate 

Who  from  himself  himself  did  alien- 
That    he,    returning    to    himself, 

might  pave 
A  pathway  hence,  to  heaven  from 
the  grave. 
For   man    to    follow — through    the 
heavenly  gate. 

Wert  thou,  my  Christ,  not  ignorant 
of  grief  ? 
A  man  of  sorrows  ?    Not  for  sor- 
row's aake 


(Lord,  I  believe  :  help  thou  mine  un- 
belief !) 
Beneath  the  thorns  did  thy  pure 
forehead  ache  : 
But  that  in  sorrow  only,  unto  sor- 
row. 
Can  comfort  come  ;  in  manhood 

only,  man 
Perceive     man's     destiny.        In 
Nature's  plan 
Our  path  is  over  Midnight  to  To- 
morrov/. 

And  so  the  Prince  of  Life,  in  dying, 
gave 
Undying  life  to  mortals.     Once  he 
stood 
Among  his  fellows,  on  this  side  the 
grave, 
A  niau,  perceptible  to  flesh  and 
blood  : 
Now,  taken  from  our  sight,  he  dwells 
no  less 
Within  our  mortal  memory  and 

thought ; 
The  mystery  of   all  he   was,  and 
wrought. 
Is  made  a  part  of  general  conscious- 
ness. 

And  in  this  consciousness  I  reach 
repose. 
Spent  with  the  howling  main  aiid 
desert  sand 
Almost  too  faint  to  pluck  the  unfad- 
ing rose 
Of  peace,  that  bows  its  beauty  to 
my  hand. 
Here  Reason  fails,  and  leaves  me  ; 
my  pale  guide 
Across  the  wilderness — by  a  stem 

command, 
Shut    out,   like   Moses,   from  tho 
Promist  Land. 
Touching  its    own  achievement,   it 
hath  died. 

Ah  yet  !  I  have  but  wrung  the  vic- 
tory 
From  Thought  !    Not  passionless 
will  be  my  path. 


>94 


THE  WANDERER. 


Yet  on  my  life's  pale  forehead  I  can 
see 
The    flush    of   squandered    fires. 
Passion  hath 
Yet,  in  the  purpose  of  my  days,  its 
place. 
But  changed  in  aspect  :    turned 

unto  the  East, 
Whence  grows  the  day  spring  from 
on  high,  at  least 
A  finer  fervor  trembles  on  its  face. 


THE  SOUL'S   SCIENCE. 

Can  History  prove  the  truth  which 
hath 

Its  record  in  the  silent  soul  ? 
Or  mathematics  mete  the  path 

Whereby  the  spirit  seeks  its  goal  ? 

Can  Love  of  aught  but  Love  inherit 
The  blessing  which    is    born    of 
Love?  , 

The  spirit  knoweth  of  the  spirit  : 
The  soul  alone  the  soul  can  prove. 

The  eye  to  see  :  the  ear  to  hear  : 
The   working   hand  to  help  the 
will  : 

To  every  sense  his  separate  sphere  : 
And  unto  each  his  several  skill. 

The  ear  to  sight,  the  eye  to  sound. 

Is  callous  :  unto  each  is  given 
His  lorddom  in  his  proper  bound. 
The    soul,   the    soul    to  find  out 
heaven  I 

There  is  a  glory  veiled  to  sight  ; 
A    voice    which   never    ear  hath 
heard  ; 
There  is  a  law  no  hand  can  write. 
Yet    stronger    than    the   written 
word. 

And  hast  thou  tidings  for  my  soul, 
O  teacher  ?  to  my  soul  intrust 

Alone  the  purport  of  thy  scroll  : 
Or  vex  me  not  with  learne'd  dust. 


A  PSALM  OF  CONFESSION. 

Full  soon  doth  Sorrow  make  her 
covenant 
With  Life  ;  and  leave  her  shadow 
in  the  door  : 
And  all  those  futui-e  days,  for  which 
we  pant. 
Do  come  in  mourning  for  the  days 
of  yore. 
Still  through  the  world  gleams  Mem- 
ory  seeking  Love, 
Pale  as  the  torch  which  grieving 

Ceres  bore. 
Seeking  Proserpina,  on  that  dark 
shore 
Where  only  phantoms  through  the 
twilight  move. 

The  more  we  change,  the  more  is  allj 
the  same, 
Om-  last  grief  was  a  tale  of  other^ 
years 

Quite  outworn,  till  to  our  own  hearts 

it  came. 

Wishes  are  pilgrims  to  the  Yale  of^ 

Tears. 

Our  brightest  joys  are  but  as  aii 

shapes 

Of  cloud,  that  fade  on  evening's 

glimmering  slope  ; 
And   disappointment    hawks    the 
hovering  hope 
Forever    pecking    at    the    painted 
grapes. 

Why  can  we  not  one  moment  pause, 
and  cherish 
Love,  though  love  turn  to  tears  ? 
or  for  hope's  sake 
Bless  hope,  albeit  the  thing  we  hope 
may  perish  ? 
For  happiness  is  not  in  what  we 
take. 
But  what  we  give.      What  matter 
though  the  thing 
We  cling  to  most  should  fail  us  ? 

dust  to  dust, 
It  is  Wx^  feeling  for  the  thing,— the 
trust 
In  beauty  somewhere,  to  which  eouls 
I  should  cling. 


PALINGENESIS. 


T 


rr 


•'jK"^^: 


My  youth  has  failed,  if  failure  lies 
in  aiijrlit 
The  warm  heart  dreams,  or  which 
the  working  hand 
Is  set  to  do.     I  have  failed  in  aidless 
thouglit, 
And  steadfast  purpose,  and  in  self- 
command. 
I  have  failed  in  hope,  in  health,  in 
love  :  failed  in  the  word, 
And  in  the  deed  too  I  have  failed. 

Ah  yet, 
Albeit  with  eyes  from  recent  weep- 
ings wet. 
Sing  thou,  my  Soul,  thy  psalm  imto 
the  Lord  ! 

The  burthen  of  the  desert  and  the 
sea  !  [vale  1 

The  burthen  of  the  vision  in  the 
My   threshing-floor,   my    threshing- 
floor  I  ah  me, 
Thy  wind  haih  strewn  my  corn, 
and  spoiled  the  flail  I 
The  biuthen  of  Dumah  and  of  Ded- 
anim  ! 
What  of  the  night,  O  watchman, 

of  the  night  ? 
The  glory  of  Kedar  faileth  :  and 
the  might 
Of  mighty  men  is  minisht^d  and  dim. 

The  morning  cometh,  and  the  night, 
he  cries. 
The  watchman  cries  the  morning, 
too,  is  nigher. 
And,   if  ye  would  inquire,   lift  up 
your  eyes, 
Inquire  of  the  Lord,  return,  in- 
quire ! 
I  stand  upon  the  watchtower  all  day 
long  :  [ward. 

And  all  the  night  long  I  am  set  in 
Is  it  thy  feet  upon  the  mountains. 
Lord? 
I  sing  against  the  darkness  :  hear 
my  song  ! 

The   majesty  of   Kedar  hath  been 
spoiled  : 
Bound  are  the  arrows  :  broken  is 
the  bcw. 


I  come  before  the  Lord  with  gar- 
ments soiled. 
The  ashes  of  my  life  are  on  my 
brow. 
Take  thou  thy  harp,  and  go  about 
the  city. 
O  daughter  of  Desire,  with  gar- 
ments torn  : 
Sing  many   songs,  wake  melody, 
and  moiu-n, 
That    thou  may'st  be  remembered 
unto  pity. 

Just,  awful  God  I  here  at  thy  feet  I 
lay 
My  life's  most  precious  offering  : 
dearly  bought. 
Thou  knowest  with    what   toil  by 
night  and  day  : 
Thou  knowest  the  pain,  the  pas- 
sion, and  the  thought. 
I  bring  thee  my  youth's  failure.     I 
have  spent 
My  youth  upon  it.    All  I  have  is 

here. 
Were  it  worth  all  it  is  not,  price 
more  dear 
Could  I  have  paid  for  its  accomplish- 
ment ? 

Yet  it  is  much.    If  I  could  say  to 
thee, 
"Acquit  me.   Judge;    for  I   am 
thus,  and  thus  ; 
And  have  achieved — even  so  much,'' 
— should  I  be 
Thus  wholly  fearless  and  impetu- 
ous 
To  rush  into  thy  presence  ?  I  might 
weigh 
The  little  done  against  the  undone 

much  : 
My  merit  with  thy  mercy  :  and,  as 
such. 
Haggle  with  pardon  for  a  price  to 
pay. 

But  now  the  fulness  of  its  failure 
makes 
My  spirit  fearless ;    and    despair 
grows  bold. 


296 


THE  WANDERER. 


My  brow,  beneath  its  sad  self-knowl- 
edge, aches. 
Life's    presence    passes  Thine    a 
thousand-fold 
In  contemplated  terror.     Can  I  lose 
Aught  by  that  desperate  temerity 
Which  leaves  no  choice  but  to  sur- 
render Thee 
My  life  without  condition  ?    Could  I 
choose 

A  stipulated  sentence,  I  might  ask 
For  ceded  dalliance  to  some  cher- 
isht  vice  : 
Or  half-remission  of  some  desperate 
task  : 
Now,  all  I  have  is  hateful.     What 
is  the  price  ? 
Speak,   Lord  !    I  hear  the    Fiend's 
hand  at  the  door. 
Hell's  slavery  or  heaven's  service 

is  it  the  choice  '? 
How  can  I  palter  with  the  terms  ? 
O  voice. 
Whence  do  I  hear  thee  .  .   .   "  Go  : 
and  sin  no  more  "  ? 

No  more,  no  more  ?    But  I  have  kist 
dead  white 
The  cheek  of  Vice.     No  more  the 
harlot  hides 
Her  loathsomeness  of  lineament  from 
my  sight. 
No  more  within  my  bosom  there 
abides 
Her    poisoned     perfume.      O,    the 
witch's  mice 
Have    eat    her    scarlet  robe  and 

diaper, 
And  she  fares  naked  !    Part  from 
her — from  her  ? 
Is  this  the  price,  O  Lord,  is  this  the 
price  ? 

Yet,   though    her  web    be  broken, 
bonds,  I  know. 
Slow  custom  frames  in  the  strong 
forge  of  time, 
Which  outlast  love,  and  will  not  wear 
with  woe, 
Nor  break  beneath  the  cognizance 
of  crime. 


The  witch  goes  bare.     But  he, — the 
father  fiend. 
That  roams  the  unthrifty  furrows 

of  my  days. 
Yet  walks  the  field  of  life  ;  and, 
w^here  he  strays, 
The  husbandry  of  heaven  for  hell  ia 
gleaned. 

Lulls  are  there  in  man's  life  which 
are  not  peace. 
Tumults  which  are  not  triumphs. 
Do  I  take 
The  pause  of  passion  for  the  fiend's 
decease  ? 
This  frost  of  grief  hath  numbed 
the  drowsing  snake  ; 
Which  yet  may  wake,  and  sting  me 
in  the  heat 
Of  new  emotions.     What  shall  bar 

the  door 
Against  the  old  familiar,  that  of 
yore 
Came  without  call,  and  sat  within 
my  seat  ? 

When  evening  brings  its  dim  grim 
hour  again. 
And  hell  lets  loose  its  dusky  brood 
awhile. 
Shall  I  not  find  him  in  the  darkness 
then? 
The  same  subservient  and  yet  in- 
solent smile  ? 
The   same   indifferent  ignominious 
face? 
The  same  old  sense  of  household 

horror,  come 
Like  a  tame  creature,  back  into  its 
home? 
Meeting  me,  haply,  in  my  wonted 
place, 

With  the  loathed  freedom  of  an  un- 
loved mate. 
Or  crouching  on  my  pillow  as  of 
old? 
Knowing  I  hate  him,  impotent  Ld 
hate  ! 
Therefore  more  subtle,  strenuoifC^ 
and  bold. 


PALJNGEJ^ESIS, 


297 


Thus  ancient  habit  will  usurp  young 
will, 
And  each  new  effort  rivet  the  old 

thrall. 
No  matter  !  those  who  climb  must 
count  to  fall, 
But  each  new  fall  will  prove  them 
climbing  still. 

O  wretched  man  !  the  body  of  this 
death 
Which,  groaning  in  the  spirit,  I 
yet  bear  [breath 

On  to  the  end  (so  that  I  breathe  the 
Of  its    corruption,   even    though 
breathing  prayer). 
What  shall  take  from  me  ?    Must  I 
drag  forever 
The  cold  corpse  of  the  life  which  I 

have  killed 
But  cannot  bury  ?    Must  my  heart 
be  filled 
With  the  dry  dust  of  every  dead  en- 
deavor ? 

For  often,  at  the  mid   of  the  long 
night, 
Some    devil  enters   into  the  dead 
clay, 
A.nd  gives  it  life  unnatural  in  my 
sight.  [away, 

The  dead  man  rises  up  ;  and  roams 
Back  to  the  mouldered  mansions  of 
the  Past  : 
And  lights  a  lurid  revel  in  the  halls 
Of  vacant    years  ;    and    lifts  his 
voice,  and  calls. 
Till  troops  ot  phantoms  gather  round 
him  fast. 

Frail  gold-haired  corpses,  in  whose 
eyes  there  lives 
A  strange  regret  too  wild  to  let 
them  rest : 
Crowds  of  pale  maidens,  who  were 
never  wives 
And  infants  that  all  died  upon  the 
breast  [revelry 

That  suckled  them.    And  these  make 
Mingled  with  wailing  all  the  mid- 
night through, 


Till  the  sad  day  doth  -with  stern 
light  renew 
The  toiling  land,  and  the  complain- 
ing sea. 

Full  well  I  know  that  in  this  world 
of  ours 
The  dreadful  Commonplace  sue 
ceeds  all  change  ; 
We  catch  at  times  a  gleam  of  flying 
powers 
That  pass  in  storm  some  windy 
mountain  range  : 
But,  while  we  gaze,  the  cloud  returns 
o'er  all. 
And  each,  to  guide  him  up  the 

devious  height. 
Must    take,   and  bless,   whatever 
earthly  light 
From  household  hearths,  or  shep- 
herd fires,  may  fall. 

This  wave,  that  groans  and  writhes 
upon  the  beach, 
To-morrow  will  submit  itself  to 
calm  ;  [of  reach, 

That  wind  that  rushes,  moaning,  out 
Will  die  anon  beneath  some  breath- 
less palm  ; 
These  tears,  these  sighs,  these  mo- 
tions of  the  soul. 
This  inexpressible  pining  of  the 

mind. 
The  stern  indifferent  laws  of  life 
shall  bind. 
And  fix  forever  in  their  old  control. 

Behold  this  half-tamed  universe  of 
things  ! 
That    cannot  break,   nor   \;holly 
bear,  its  chain.. 
Its  heart  by  fits  grows  wild  :  it  leaps, 
it  springs  ; 
Then  the  chain  galls,  and  kennelb 
it  again. 
If  man  were  formed  with  all  his 
faculties 
For  sorrow,  I  should  sorrow  for 
him  less.  [stress 

Considering  a  life    bO  brief,   tho 
Of  its  short  passion  I  might  well 
despise  : 


298 


THE  WANDERER. 


But  all  man's  faculties  are  for  de- 
light ; 
But  all  man's  life  is  compassed 
with  what  seems 
Framed  for  enjoyment  :  but  from  all 
that  sight 
And  sense  reveal  a  magic  murmur 
streams 
Into  man's  heart,   which    says,   or 
seems  to  say, 
**Be  happy  !"  .  .  .  and  the  heart 

of  man  replies, 
"  Leave  happiness    to  brutes  :    I 
would  be  wise  : 
Give    me,   not    peace,   but  science, 
glory,  art." 

Therefore,  age,  sickness,  and  mor- 
tality [pain  : 
Are  but  the  lightest  portion  of  his 
Therefore,  shut  out  from  joy,  inces- 
santly 
Death  finds  him  toiling  at  a  task 
that's  vain.  have  : 
I  weep  the  want;  of  all  he  pines  to 
I  weep  the  loss  of  all  he  leaves  be- 
hind : — 
Contentment,    and    repose,     and 
peace  of  mind. 
Pawned  for  the  purchase  of  a  little 
grave  : 

I  weep  the    hundred  centuries    of 
time  ; 
I  weep    the    millions    that    have 
squandered  them 
In  error,  doubt,  anxiety,  and  crime. 
Here,  where  the  free  birds  sing 
from  leaf  and  stem  : 
I  weep  .  .  .  but  what    are    tears  ? 
\Vhat  I  deplore 
I  knew  not,  half  a  huodred  years 

ago  : 
And  half   a  hundred  years  from 
hence,  I  know 
That  what  I  weep  for  I  shall  know 
no  more. 

The  spirit  of  that  wide  and  leafless 
wind 
That  wanders    o'er  the    iincom- 
panioued  6ea, 


Searching  for  what  it  never  seems  to 

find, 

Stirred  in  my  hair,  and  moved  my 

heart  in  me, 

To  follow  it,  far  over  land  and  main: 

And  everywhere  over  this  earth's 

scarred  face 
The  footsteps  of  a  God  I  seemed 
to  trace  ; 
But  everywhere  steps  of  a  God  in 
pain. 

If,  haply,  he  that  made  this  heart  of 
mine, 
Himself    in    sorrow    walked    the 
world  erewhile. 
What  then  am  I,  to  marvel  or  repine 
That  I  go  mourning  ever  in  the 
smile 
Of  universal  nature,  searching  ever 
The  phantom  of  a  joy  which  here 

I  miss  ? 
My  heart  inhabits    other  worlds 
than  this, 
Therefore  my  search  is  here  a  vain 
endeavor. 

Methought,  ...  (it  was  the    mid- 
night of  my  soul, 
Dead  midnight)  that  I  stood  on^ 
Calvary  : 
I  found  the  cross,  but  not  the  Christ. ' 
The  whole 
Of  heaven  was  dark  :  and  I  went 
bitterly 
Weeping,  because  I  found  him  not. 
Methought,  .  .  . 
(It  was  the  twilight  of  the  dawn 

and  mist) 
I   stood    before  the  sepulchre  of 
Christ  : 
The  sepulchre  was  vacant,  void  of 
aught 

Saving  the  cere-clothes  of  the  grave, 

which  were 
Upfolden      straight     and     empty ; 

bitterly 
Weeping  I  stood,  because  not  even 

there 
I  found  him.    Then  a  voice  spake 

unto  laCi 


PALINGENESIS. 


J99 


"  Wliom  seekest  thou  *?    Why  is  thy 
heart  dismayed  ? 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  he  is  not  here: 
Behold,  the  Lord  is  risen.     Be  of 
cheer  : 
Approach,   behold  the  place  where 
he  was  laid." 

And  while  he  spake,  the    sunrise 
smote  the  world. 
*'  Go  forth,  and  tell  thy  brethren," 
spake  the  voice  : 
"  The  Lord  is  risen."     Suddenly  un- 
furled, 
The  whole  imclouded  Orient  did 
rejoice 
In    glory.       Wherefore     should    I 
mourn  that  here 
My  heart  feels  vacant    of  what 

most  it  needs  ? 
Christ  is  ri^en  !    .  .  .    the  cere- 
clothes  and  the  weeds 
That  wrapped  him  lying  in  his  sepul- 
chre 

Of  earth,  he  hath  abandoned  ;  being 
gone 
Back  into  heaven,  where  we  too 
must  tm-n 
Our  gaze  to  find  him.     Pour,  O  risen 
Sun 
Of  Righteousness,  the   light   for 
which  I  yearn 
Upon  the  darkness  of  this  mortal 
hour, 
This  track  of  night  in  which  I 

walk  forlorn  : 
Behold  the  night  is  now  far  spent. 
The  morn 
Breaks,  breaking  from  afar  through 
a  night  shower. 


EEQUIESCAT. 

£  SOUGHT  to  build  a  deathless  mon- 
ument 
To   my    dead    love.      Therein  I 
meant  to  place 

All  precious  things,  and  rare  :   as 
Natui-e  blent 


All  single  sweetnesses  in  one  sweeti 
face. 
I  could  not  build  it  worthy  her  mute 
merit. 
Nor  worthy  her  white  brows  and 
holy  eyes, 
Nor  worthy  of  her  perfect  and  pure 
spirit, 
Nor  of  my  own  immortal  mem- 
ories. 
But  as  some  wrapt  artificer  of  old. 
To  enshrine  the  ashes  of  a  virgin 
saint. 
Might  scheme  to  work  with  ivory, 
and  fine  gold, 
And  carven  gems,  and  legended 
and  quaint 
Seraphic  heraldries  ;  searching  far 
lands, 
Orient  and  Occident,  for  all  things 
rare. 
To  consecrate  the  toil  of  reverent 
hands. 
And  make  his  labor,  like  h(?r  virtue, 
fair  ; 
Knowing  no  beauty  beautiful  as  she, 
And  all  his  labor  void,  but  to  be- 
guile 
A  sacred  sorrow  ;  so  I  worked.    Ah, 
see 
Here  are  the    fragments    of  my 
shattered  pile  ! 
I  keep  them,  and  the  flowers  that 
sprang  between 
Their  broken   workmanship — the 
flowers  and  weeds  ! 
Sleep  soft  among  the  violets,  O  my 
Queen, — 
Lie     calm     among     my     ruined 
thoughts  and  deeds. 


EPILOGUE. 

PAET  I. 

Change  without  term,  and  strife 

without  result. 
Persons    that  pass,  and    fchadowo 
that  remain, 
One  strange,  impenetrable,  and  oc- 
cult 


3^^ 


Tim  WANDERER. 


Suggestion  of  a  hope,  that's  hoped 

in  vain, 
Behold  the  world  man  reigns  in  I 

His  delight 
Deceives  ;    his    power    fatigues  ; 

his  strength  is  brief  ; 
Even    his    religion    presupposes 

grief, 
His  morning  is  not  certain  of  the 

night. 

I  have  beheld,  without  regret,  the 
trunk, 
Which     propped    three    hundred 
summers  on  its  boughs. 
Which  housed,  of    old,  the    merry 
bird,  and  drunk 
The  divine  dews  of  air,  and  gave 
carouse 
To  the  free  winds  of  heaven,   lie 
overthrown 
Amidst  the  trees  which  its  own 

fruitage  bore. 
Its  promise  is  fulfilled.    It  is  no 
more. 
But  it  hath  been.      Its  destiny  is 
done. 

But  the  wild  ash,  that  springs  above 
the  marsh  ! 
Strong  and  superb  it  rises  o'er  the 
wild. 
Vain   energy    of  being !     For  the 
harsh 
And  fetid  ooze  already  hath  de- 
filed 
The  roots  by  whose  sap  it  lives  by. 
Heaven  doth  give 
No  blessing  to  its  boughs.     The 

humid  wind 
Kots    them.      The    vapors    warp 
them.     All  declined, 
Its  life    hath    ceased,  ere    it  hath 
ceased  to  live. 

Child  of  the  waste,  and  nursling  of 

the  pest  ! 
A  kindred  fate  hath  watched  and 

wept  thy  own. 
TliLne    epitaph    is   wrlLten  in  my 


Years  change.      Day  treads   out 

day.     For  me  alone 
No    change    is    nursed  within   the 

brooding  bud. 
Satiety  I  have  not  known,  anc*. 

yet, 

I  wither  in  the  void  of  life,  and 
fret 
A  futile  time,  with  an  unpeacefuJ 
blood. 

The  days  are  all  too  long,  the  night.i 
too  fair, 
And  too  much  redness  satiates  the 
rose. 

0  blissful,  season  I  blest  and  balmy 

air  ! 
Waves  !     moonlight  !      silence  I 
years  of  lost  repose  ! 
Bowers  and  shades  that  echoed  to 
the  tread 
Of  young  Romance  !    birds  that, 

from  woodland  bars, 
Sang,  serenading  forth  the  timid 
stars  ! 
Youth  !  beauty  !  passion  !  whither 
are  ye  fled  ? 

1  wait,   and  long  have  waited,  and 

yet  wait 
The  coming  of  the  footsteps  which 

ye  told 
My  heart  to  watch  for.     Yet  the 

hour  is  late, 
And  ye  have  left  me.    Did  they 

lie,  of  old. 
Your  thousand  voices  prophesying 

bliss  ? 
That  troubled  all  the  current  of  a 

fate 
Which  else  might  have  been  peace- 
ful !    I  await 
The  thing  I    have  not  found,  yet 

would  not  miss. 

To  face  out  childhood,  and    grow 
up  to  man. 
To  make  a  noise,  and  question  all 
one  sees, 
The  astral  orbit  of  a  world  to  span. 
And,  after  a  few  days,  to  take  one's 


PALIXGENESIS, 


ZOi 


ITndfcr  the  graveyard  grasses, — this, 
my  friend, 
Appears  to  me  a  thing  too  strange 

but  what 
I  wish  to  know  its  meaning.     I 
would  not 
Depart  before  I  have  perceived  the 
end. 

And  I  would  know  what,  here  below 
the  sun. 
He  is,  and  what  is  his  place,  that 
being  w^hich  seems 
The  end  of  all  means,  yet  the  means 
of  none  ; 
Who     searches     and     combines, 
aspires  and  dreams  ; 
Seeking  new  things  with  ever  the 
same  hope, 
Seeking  new  hopes   in  ever  the 

same  thing  ; 
A  king  without  the  powers  of  a 
king, 
A   beggar  with  a  kingdom   in  his 
scope  ; 

Who  only  sees  in  what  he  hath  at- 
tained 
The  means  whereby  he  may  attain 
to  more  ; 
WTio  only  finds  hi  that  which  he 
hath  gained 
The  want  cf  what  he  did  not  want 
before  ; 
Whom  weakness  strengthens  ;  who 
is  soothed  by  strife  ; 
Who  seeks  new  joys  to  prize  the 

absent  most  ; 
Still  from  illusion  to  illusion  tost. 
Himself  the    great  illusion    of  his 
life! 

Why  is  it,  all  deep  emotion  makes 
us  sigh 
To  quit  this  world  ;-'    What  better 
thing  than  death 
Can  follow  after  rapture  ?    **  Let  us 
die  !" 
This  is  the  last  wish  on  the  lover's 
breath. 


If  thou  wouldst  live,  content  thee. 
To  enjoy 
Is  to  begin  to  perish.      What  ie 

bliss. 
But    transit  to   some  other  state 
from  this  ? 
That  which  we  live  for  must  our  life 
destroy. 

Hast  thou  not  ever  longed  for  death  ? 
If  not. 
Not  yet  thy  life's  experience  is  at- 
tained. 
But  if  thy  days  be  favored,  if  thy  lot 
Be  easy,   if  hope's  summit  thou 
hast  gained, 
Die  !    Death  is  the  sole  future  left 
to  thee. 
The  knowledge    of    this    life    is 

bound,  for  each, 
By  his  own  powers.     Death  lies 
between  our  reach 
And  all  which,  living,  we  have  lived 
to  be. 


Death  is  no  evil,  since  it  comes  to 
all. 
For  evil  is  the  exception,  not  the 
law. 
What  is  it  in  the  tempest  that  doth 
call 
Our    spirits  down  its  pathways  ? 
or  the  awe 
Of  that  abyss  and  solitude  beneath 
High  mountain  passes,  which  doth 

aye  attract 
Such  strange  desire  ?  or  in  the  cat- 
aract ? 
The  sea  ?     It  is  the  sentiment  of 
death. 


If  life  no  more  than  a  mere  seeming 
be. 
Away  with  the  imposture  !    If  it 
tend 
To  nothing,  and  to  have  lived  seem- 
ingly 
Prove  to  be  vain  and  futile  ia  the 
end, 


301 


THE  WANDERER. 


Then  let  us  die,  that  we  may  really 
live, 
Or  cease  to  feign  to  live.     Let  us 

possess 
Lasting  delight,  or  lasting  quiet- 
ness. 
What  life  desires,  death,  only  death, 
can  give. 

Where    are    the  violets  of  vanisht 
years  ? 
The  sunsets  Rachel  watched   by 
Laban's  well  ? 
Where  is  Fidele's  face  ?  where  Ju- 
liet's tears  ? 
There  comes  no  answer.     There 
is  none  to  tell 
What  we  go  questioning,   till   our 
mouths  are  stopt 
By  a  clod  of  earth.     Ask  of  the 

plangent  sea, 
The  wild  wind  wailing  through  the 
leafless  tree, 
Ask  of  the  meteor  from  the  mid- 
night dropt  ! 

Dome,  Death,  and  bring  the  beauty 
back  to  all  ! 
I  do  not  seek  thee,  but  I  will  not 
shun. 
And  let  thy  coming  be  at  even-fall. 
Thy   pathway  through  the  setting 
of  the  sun. 
And  let  us  go  together,  I  with  thee, 
What    time  the    lamps   in  Eden 

bowers  are  lit; 
And  Melancholy,  all  alone,  doth 
sit 
By  the  wide  marge  of  some  neglected 
aea. 

PAKT  n. 

One  hour  of  English  twilight  once 
again  ! 
Lo  !  in  the  rosy  regions  of  the  dew 
The  confines  of  the  world  begin  to 
wane. 
And  Heaper  doth  his  trembling 
lamp  reneWo 
Now    is    the    inauguration   of   the 


Nature's  release  to  wearied  earth 

and  skies  ! 
Sweet  truce    of    Care  I     Labor's 

brief  armistice  ! 
Best,  loveliest  interlude  of  dark  and 

light  ! 

The  rookery,  babbling  in  the  sunken 
wood  ; 
The  watchdog,  barking  from  the 
distant  farm, 
The  dim  light  fading  from  the  horned 
flood, 
That  winds  the  woodland  in  its 
silver  arm  ; 
The  massed  and  immemorial  oaks, 
whose  leaves 
Tre  husht  in  yonder  healthy  dells 

below  ; 
The  fragrance  of  the  meadows  that 
I  know  ; 
The  bat,  that  now  his  wavering  cir- 
cle weaves 

Around  these  antique  towers,  and 
casements  deep 
That  glimmer,  through  the  ivy  and 
the  rose, 
To  the  faint  moon,  which  doth  be- 
gin to  creep 
Out  of    the  inmost  heart  o'  the 
heavens'  repose, 
To  wander    all  night  long,  without 
a  sound, 
Above  the  fields  my  feet  oft  wan- 
dered once  ; 
The  larches  tall  and  dark,  which 
do  ensconce 
The  little  churchyard,  in  whose  hal- 
lowed ground 

Sleep  half  the  simple   friends   my 

childhood  knew  : 
All,  all  the  sounds  and  sights  of 

this  blest  hour. 
Sinking  within  my  heart  of  hearts, 

like  dew, 
Revive  that    so  long  parcht  anJ 

drooping  flower 
Of  youth,  the  v/orld's  hot  breath  for 

many  ycarb 


FAUN-GENESIS. 


303 


Hath  burned   and  withered  ;   till 
once  more,  once  more. 

The  revelation  and  the  dream  of 
yore 
Return  to  solace  these  sad  eyes  with 
tears  I 

Where  now,  alone,  a  solitary  man, 
1  pace  once  more  the  pathways  of 
my  home, 
Light-hearted,  and  together,  once  we 
ran, 
I,  and  the  infant  guide  that  used 
to  roam 
With  me,  the  meads  and  meadow- 
banks  among, 
At  dusk  and  dawn.     How  light 

those  little  feet 
Danced  through  the  dancing  grass 
and  waving  wheat, 
Where'er,    far    off,    we    heard    the 
cuckoo's  song  I 

I  know  now,  little  Ella,  what  the 
flowers 
Said  to  you  tlien,   to  make  your 
cheek  so  pale  ; 
And  why  the  blackbird  in  our  laurel 
bowers 
Spake  to  you,  only  ;  and  the  poor, 
pink  snail 
Feared  less  your  steps  than  those  of 
the  Maj^-shower. 
It  was  not  strange  these  creatures 

loved  you  so, 
And  told  you  all.     'Twas  not  so 
long  ago 
You  were,  yourself,  a  bird,  or  else  a 
flower 

A.nd,  little  Ella,  you  were  pale,  be- 
cause 
So  soon  you  were  to  die.     I  know 
that  now. 
And  why  there  ever  seemed  a  sort  of 
gauze 
Over  your  deep  blue  eyes,  and  sad 
young  brow. 
You  were  too  good    to    grow    up, 
Ella,  you. 
And  be  a  woman,  such  as  I  have 
known  ! 


And  so  upon  your  heart  they  put 
a  stone, 
And  left  you,    dear,    amongst  the 
flowers  and  dew. 

God's  will  is  good.     He  knew  what 
would  be  best. 
I  will  not  weep  thee,  darling,  any 
more  ; 
I  have  not  wept  thee  ;   though  my 
heart,  opprest 
With  many  memories,  for  thy  sake 
is  sore. 
God's  will  is  good,  and  great  His 
wisdom  is. 
Thou  wast  a  little  star,  and  thou 

didst  shine 
Upon  my  cradle  ;  but  thou  wast 
not  mine. 
Thou  wast  not  mine,  my  darling ; 
thou  art  His. 

My  morning  star  !  twin  sister  of  my 
soul  ! 
My  little  elfin  friend  from  Fairy 
Land  ! 
Whose  memory  is  yet  innocent  of 
the  whole 
Of  that  which  makes  me  doubly 
need  thy  hand. 
Thy  little  guiding  hand  so  soon  with- 
drawn ! 
Here  where  I  find  so  little  like  to 

thee. 
For  thou  wert  as  the  breath  of 
dawn  to  me. 
Starry,  and  pure,  and  brief  as  is  the 
dawn. 

Thy  knight  was   I,   and    thou  my 
Fairy  Queen. 
{'Twas  in  the  days   of  love  and 
chivalry  !) 
And  thou  didst  hide  thee  in  a  bower 
of  green. 
But  fliou  so  well  hast  hidden  thee, 
that  I 
Have  never  found  thee  since.     And 
thou  didst  set 
Many  a  task,  and  quest,  and  high 
emprise, 


3^4 


THE  WANDERER. 


Ere  I  should  win  my  guerdon  from 
thine  eyes, 
So  many,  and  so  many,  that  not  yet 

My  tasks  are  ended,  or  my  wander- 
ings o'er. 
But  some  day  thou  wilt  send  across 
the  main 
A  magic  bark,  and  I  shall  quit  this 
shore 
Of    care,   and    find    thee,   in  thy 
bower,  again  ; 
And  thou  wilt  say,  *'  My  brother, 
hast  thou  found 
Our  home,  at  last  ?  "  .  .  .  Whilst  I, 

in  answer.  Sweet, 
Shall  heap  my  life's  last  booty  at 
thy  feet. 
And  bare  my  breast  with  many  a 
bleeding  woimd. 

The  spoils  of  time  !  the  trophies  of 
the  world  ! 
The  keys  of  conquered  towns,  and 
captived  kings  ; 
And  many  a  broken  sword,  and  ban- 
ner furled  ; 
The  heads  of  giants,  and  swart 
Soldan's  rings  ; 
And  many  a  maiden's  scarf  ;  and 
many  a  wand 
Of  baffled  wizard  ;  many  an  amu- 
let ; 
And  many  a   shield,   with   mine 
own  heart's  blood  wet ; 
And  jewels,  dear,  from  many  a  dis- 
tant land  I 


God's  will  is  good.     He  knew  what 
would  be  best. 
I  thought  last  year  to  pass  away 
from  life. 
I  thought  my  toils  were  ended,  and 
my  quest 
Completed,  and  my  part  in  this 
world's  strife 
Accomplisht.    And,  behold  !    about 
me  now 
There  rest  the  gloom,  the  gjory, 
and  the  awe 


Of  a  new  martyrdom,  no  dreams 
foresaw  ; 
And  the  thorn-crown  hath  blossomed 
on  my  brow. 

A  martyrdom,  but  with  a  martyr'3 
joy! 
A  hope  I  never  hoped  for  I  and  a 
sense 
That  nothing  henceforth  ever  can 
destroy  : — 
Within  my  breast  the  serene  con- 
fidence 
Of  mercy  in  the  misery  of  things  ; 
Of  meaning  in  the  mystery  of  all  \ 
Of  blessing  in  whatever  may  be- 
fall ; 
Of  rest  predestined  to  all  wanderings. 

How  sweet,  with  thee,  my  sister,  to 
renew. 
In  lands  of  light,  the  search  for 
those  bright  birds 
Of  plumage,  so  ethereal  in  its  hue, 
And  music  sweeter  than  all  mortal 
words. 
Which  some  good  angel  to  our  child- 
hood sent 
With    messages    from    Paradisal 

flowers. 
So  lately  left,  the  scent  of  Eden 
bowers 
Yet  lingered  in  our  hair,  where'er 
we  went ! 

Now,  they  are  all  fled  by,  this  many 
a  year, 
Adown  the  viewless  valleys  of  the 
wind, 
And    never    more    will    cross    this 
hemisphere, 
Those  birds  of    passage  !    Never 
shall  I  find, 
Dropt  from  the  flight,  you  followed, 
dear,  so  far 
That  you  will  never  come  again, 

I  know, 
One    plumelet   on    the   paths  by 
which  I  go, 
Missing  thy  light  there,  O  my  morn- 
ing star  ! 


PALIMGENESIS. 


305 


Soft,  over  all,  doth  ancient  twilight 
cast 
Her  dim  gray  robCj  vague  as  fu- 
turity. 
And  sad  and  hoary  as  the  ghostly 
past. 
Till  earth  assumes  invisibility. 
I  hear  the  night-bird's  note,  where- 
with she  starts 
The  bee  within  the  blossom  from 

his  dream. 
A  light,  like  hope,  from  yonder 
pane  doth  beam, 
And  now,  like  hope,  it  silently  de- 
parts. 

Hush  !  from  the  clock  within  yon 
dark  chm'ch  spire. 
Another  hoiu-  broke,  clanging,  out 
of  time. 
And  passed  me,  throbbing  like  my 
my  own  desire. 
Into  the  seven-fold  heavens.    And 
now,  the  chime 
Over  the  vale,  the  woodland,  and 
the  river, 
More  faint,  more  far,  a  quivering 

echo,  strays 
From    that    small    twelve-houred 
circle  of  our  days. 
And  spreads,   and   spreads,   to  the 
great  round  Forever. 

Pensive,  the  sombre  ivied  porch  I 
pass. 
Through  the  dark  hall,  the  somid 
of  my  own  feet 
Piu-sues  me,  like  the  ghost  of  what  I 
was, 
Into  this  silent  chamber,  where  I 
meet 
From  wall  to  wall  the  fathers  of  my 
race  ; 
The  pictures  of  the  past  from  wall 

to  wall  ; 
Wandering  o'er  which,  my  wistful 
glances  fall. 
To  sink,  at  last,  on  little  Ella's  face. 

This  is  my  home.     And  hither  I  re- 
turn, 
After  much  wandering  in  the  ways 
of  men, 

t20 


Weary  but  not  outworn.    Here,  with 
her  urn 
Shall  Memory  come,  and  be  my 
denizen. 
And  blue-eyed  Hope  shall  through 
the  window  look, 
And  lean  her  fair  child's  face  into 

the  room. 
What    time    the    hawthorn    buds 
anew,  and  bloom 
The  bright  forget-me-nots  beside  the 
brook. 

Father  of  all  which  is,  or  yet  may  be. 
Ere  to  the  pillow  which  my  child- 
hood prest 
This    night    restores    my    troubled 
brows,  by  Thee 
May  this,  the  last  prayer  I  have 
learned,  be  blest ! 
Grant  me  to  live  that  I  may  need 
from  life 
No  more  than  life  hath  given  me, 

and  to  die 
That  I  may  give  to  death  no  more 
than  I 
Have  long  abandoned.     And,  if  toil 
and  strife 

Yet  in  the  portion  of  my  days  must 
be. 
Firm  be  my  faith,  and  quiet  be  my 
heart ! 
That  so  my  work  may  with  my  will 
agree. 
And  strength  be  mine  to  calmly 
fill  my  part 
In  Nature's  purpose,  questioning  not 
the  end. 
For  love  is  more  than  raiment  or 

than  food. 
Shall  I  not  take  the  evil  with  the 
good  ? 
Blesse'd  to  me  be  all  which  thou  dost 
send  ! 

Nor  blest  the  least,  recalling  what 

hath  been, 
The  knowledge  of  the  evil  I  havo 

known 
Without  me,  and  within  me.    Since, 

to  lean 


3o6 


THE  WANDERER. 


Upon  a  strength  far  mightier  than 
my  own 
Such    knowedge    brought    me.     In 
whose  strength  I  stand. 

Firmly  upheld,   even   though,   in 
ruin  hurled. 

The  fixed  foundations  of  this  roll- 
ing world 
Should  topple  at  the  waving  of  Thy 
hand. 


PAET  in. 

FlATL  thou  !  sole  Muse  that,  in  an 
age  of  toil, 
Of  all  the  old  Uranian  sisterhood. 
Art  left  to  light  us  o'er  the  furrowed 
soil 
Of  this  laborious  star  !    Muse,  un- 
subdued 
By  that  strong  hand  which  hath  in 
ruin  razed 
The  temples  of  dread  Jove  !   Muse 

most  divine, 
Albeit  but  ill  by  these  pale  lips  of 
mine, 
In  days  degenerate,  first  named  and 
praised  ! 

Now  the  high  airy  kingdoms  of  the 
day 
Hyperion  holds  not.     The  disloyal 
seas 
Have  broken  from  Poseidon's  purple 
sway. 
Through     Heaven's    harmonious 
golden  palaces 
No  more  the  silver-sandalled  mes- 
sengers 
Slide  to  sweet  airs.     Upon  Olym- 
pus brow 
The  gods'  great  citadel  is  vacant 
now. 
And  not  a  lute  to  Love  in  Lesbos 
stirs. 

But    thou  wert    born    not    on    the 

Forked  Hill, 
Nor  fed  from    Hybla's  hives   by 

Attic  bees, 
Jifor  on  the  honey  Cretan  oaks  distil, 


Or  once  distilled,  when  gods  had     \ 

homes  in  trees, 
And  yoimg  Apollo  knew  thee  not.      '. 

Yet  thou 
With  Ceres  wast,  when  the  pale 

mother  trod  | 

The  gloomy  pathway  to  the  nether 

god,  , 

And   spake   with    that  dim   Power 

which  dwells  below 

The  surface  of  whatever,  where  he 
wends. 
The  circling  sun  illumineth.    And 
thou 
Wast  aye  a  friend  to  man.     Of  all 
his  friends. 
Perchance  the  friend  most  needed; 
needed  now 
Yet  more  than  ever  ;   in  a  complex 
age 
Which  changes  while  we  gaze  at 

it  :  from  heaven 
Seeking    a  sign,   and  finding  no 
sign  given. 
And  questioning  Life's  worn  book 
at  every  page. 

Nor  ever  yet,  was  song,  untaught  by 
thee. 
Worthy  to  live  immortally  with 
man. 
Wherefore,  divine  Experience,  bend 
on  me 
Thy    deep    and    searching    eyeo. 
Since  life  began. 
Meek  at  thy  mighty  knees,  though 
oft  reproved, 
I  have  sat,  spelling  out  slow  time 

with  tears, 
Where  down  the  riddling  alphabet 
of  years 
Thy  guiding  finger  o'er  the  horn- 
book moved. 

And    I    have    put    together    many 

names  : 
Sorrow,  and  Joy,  and  Hope,  and 

Memory, 
And  Love,  and  Anger  ;  as  an  Infant 

frames 


PA  LINGENESIS. 


307 


The  initials  of  a  language  wlierein 
he 
In  manhood  must  with  men  com- 
municate. 

And  oft,  the  words  were  hard  to 
understand. 

Harder  to  utter  ;  still  the  solemn 
hand 
Would  pause,  and  point,  and  wait, 
and  move,  and  wait  ; 

Till  words  grew  into  language.  Lan- 
guage grew 
To  utterance.    Utterance  into  mu- 
sic passe<l. 

I  sang  of  all  I  learned,  and  all   I 
knew. 
And,  looking  upward  in  thy  face, 
at  last, 

Beheld  it  flusht,  as  when  a  mother 
hears 
Her  infant  feebly  singing  his  first 
hymn. 

And  dreams  she  sees,  albeit  unseen 
of  him. 

Some  radiant    listener  lured    from 
other  spheres. 

Such    songs  have  been   my   solace 
many  a  while 
And  oft,  when  other  solace  I  had 
none, 
From  grief  which  lay  heart-broken 
on  a  smile. 
And  joy  that  glittered  like  a  win- 
ter sun. 
And  froze,  and  fevered  :  from  the 
great  man's  scorn. 
The  mean  man's  envy  ;   friend's 

unfriendliness  ; 
Love's  want  of  human  kindness, 
and  the  stress 
Of  nights  that  hoped  for  nothing 
from  the  morn. 

From  these,  and  worse  than  these, 
did  song  unbar 
A  refuge  through  the  ivory  gate  of 
dreams, 
"Wherein  my  spirit  grew  familiar 
With  spirits  that  glide  by  spiritual 
streams  ; 


Song  hath,   for    me,   unsealed    the 
genii  sleeping 
Under  mid  seas,  and  lured  out  of 

their  lair 
Beings  with  wohdering  eyes,  and 
wondrous  hair, 
Tame  to  my  feet  at  twilight  softly 

creeping. 
And  song  hath  been  my  cymbal  in 
the  hours 
Of  triumph  ;  when  behind  me,  far 
away. 
Lay  Egypt,  with  its  plagues  ;  and, 
by  strange  powers. 
Not  mine,   upheld,   life's  heaped 
ocean  lay 
On  either  side  a  passage  for  my  soul. 
A  passage  to  the  Land  of  Prom- 
ise !  trod 
By  giants,  where  the  chosen  race 
of  God 
Shall  find,  at  last,  its  long  predes- 
tined goal. 

The  breath  which  stirred  these  songs 
a  little  while 
Has    fleeted   by  ;     and,   with    it, 
fleeted  too 
The  days  I  sought,  thus  singing,  to 
beguile 
Of     thoughts     that    spring    like 
weeds,      which     will     creep 
through 
The    blank    interstices    of    ruined 
fanes, 
Where     Youth,     adoring,     sacri- 
ficed— its  heart, 
To  gods  forever  fallen. 

Now,  we  part-. 
My  songs  and  I.    We  part,  and  what 
remains  ? 

Perchance  an  echo,  and  perchance 
no  more. 
Harp  of  my  heart,  from  thy  brief 
music  dwells 
In  hearts,  unknown,  afar  :   as  the 
wide  shore 
Retains  within  its  hundred  hollow 
shells 
The  voices  of  the  spirits  of  the  foam, 


3o8 


THE  WANDERER. 


Which  murmur  in  the  language 
of  the  deeps, 

Though  haply  far  away,  to  one 
who  keeps  . 
Such  ocean  wealth  to  grace  an  in- 
land home. 

Within  these  cells  of  song,  how  frail 
soe'er, 
The  vast  and  wandering  tides  of 
human  life 
Have  murmured  once  ;  and  left,  in 
passing,  there, 
Faint  echoes  of  the  tumult  and  the 
strife 
Of  the  great  ocean  of  humanity. 
Fairies  have  danced  within  these 

hollow  caves, 
And    Memory  mused    above  the 
moonlit  waves, 
.Ajid  Youth,   the  lover,    here  hath 
lingered  by. 

I  sung  of  life,  as  life  would  have  me 
sing. 
Of  falsehood,  and  of  evil,  and  of 
wrong  ; 
For  many  a  false,  and  many  an  evil 
thing, 
I  found  in  life  ;  and  by  my  life  my 
song 
Was  shaped  within  me  while  I  sung: 
I  sung 
Of  Good,  for  good  is  life's  predes- 
tined end  ; 
Of  Sorrow,  for  I  knew  her  as  my 
friend  ; 
Of  Love,  for  bj  his  hand  my  harp 
was  strung. 

(  have  not  scrawled  above  the  tomb 
of  Youth 
Those  lying  epitaphs,  which  rep- 
resent 
All  virtues,  and  all  excellence,  save 
truth. 
'Twere  easy,  thus,  to  have  been 
eloquent. 
If  I  had  held  the  fashion  of  the  age 
Which  loves  to  hear  its  sounding 
flattery 


Blown  by  all  dusty  winds  from  sky  ■ 

to  sky,  I 

And  finds  its  praises  blotting  every  j 

page.  , 

And  yet,  the  Poet  and  the  Age  are 
one.  1 

And  if  the  age  be  flawed,  howe'er    . 
minute,  j 

Deep  through  the  poet's  heart  that    ) 
rent  doth  run,  ! 

And  shakes  and  mars  the  music 
of  his  lute. 
It  is  not  that  his  sympathy  is  less 
With  all   that   lives   and  all  that 

feels  aroimd  him. 
But  thai  so  close  a  sympathy  hath 
bound  him 
To  these,  that  he  must  utter  their 
distress. 


We  build  the  bridge,  and  swing  the 
wondrous  wire. 
Bind  with  an  iron  hoop  the  rolling  . 
world  ; 
Sport  with  the  spirits  of  the  ductile 
fire  ; 
And  leave  our  spells  upon  the  va- 
por furled  ; 
And  cry — Behold  the  progress  of  the 
time  ! 
Yet  are  we  tending  in  an  unknown  if 

land, 

Wliither,  we  neither  ask  nor  un-  -j 
derstand,  j 

Far  from  the  peace  of  our  unvalued  !| 
prime  ! 

And  Strength  and  Force,  the  fiends 
which  minister 
To  some  new-risen  Power  beyond 
our  span,  j 

On  either  hand,  with  hook  and  nail,  / 
confer 
To  rivet  the  Promethean  heart  of 
man 
Under  the  ravening  and  relentless  s 
beak 
Of  unappeasable  Desire,  which  yet 
The  very  vitals  of  the  age  doth  fret. 
The  limbs  are  mighty,  but  the  heart  i 
is  weak. 


ill 


PALINGENESIS. 


309 


Writhe  on,  Promettieus  !  or  whate'er 
thou  art, 
Thou  giaut  sufferer,  groaning  for 
a  race 
Thou  canst    not   save,   for  all  thy 
bleeding  heart ! 
Thy  wail  my  harp  hath  wakened  ; 
and  my  place 
Shall  be  beside  thee  ;  and  my  bless- 
ing be 
On  all  that  makes  me  worthy  yet 

to  share 
Thy  lonely  martyrdom,  and  with 
thee  wear 
That    crown    of    anguish    given  to 
poets,  and  thee  ! 

If  to  have  wept,  and  wildly  ;  to  have 
loved 
Till  love  grew  torture  ;  to  have 
grieved  till  grief 
Became  a  part  of  life  ;  if  to  have 
proved 
The  want  of  all  things  ;  if,  to  draw 
relief 
From  poesy  for  passion,  this  avail, 
I  lack  no  title  to  my  crown.     The 

.  sea 
Hath  sent  up  nymphs  for  my  so- 
ciety, 
The  mountains  have  been  moved  to 
hear  my  wail. 

Nature  and  man  were  children  long 
ago 
In  glad  simplicity  of   heart  and 
speech. 
Now  they  are    stranger's    to    each 
other's  woe  ; 
And  each  hath  language  different 
from  each. 
The  simplest  songs  sound  sweetest 
and  most  good. 
The  simplest  loves  are  the  most 

loving  ones. 
Happier  were   song's  forefathers 
than  their  sons. 
And  Homer  sung  as  Byron  never 
could. 

But  Homer  cannot  come  again  :  nor 
ever 


The  quiet  of  the  age  in  which  he 
sung. 
This  age  is  one  of  tumult  and  en- 
deavor, 
And  by  a  fevered  hand  its  harp? 
are  strung. 
And  yet,  I  do  not  quarrel  with  the 
time  ; 
Nor  quarrel  with  the  tumult  of  my 

heart, 
Which  of  the  tumult  of  the  age  is 
part ; 
Because  its  very  weakness  is  sublime. 

The  passions  are  as  winds  on  the 
wide  sea 
Of  human  life  ;   which  do  impel 
the  sails 
Of  man's  great  enterprise,  whate'er 
that  be. 
The    reckless    helmsman,    caught 
upon  these  gales, 
Under  the  roaring  gulfs  goes  down 
aghast. 
The  prudent  pilot  to  the  steadying 

breeze 
Sparely    gives    head  ;    and,    over 
perilous  seas, 
Drops  anchor  'mid    the   Fortunate 
Isles,  at  last. 

We  pray  against  the   tempest  and 
the  strife. 
The  storm,  the  whirlwind,  and  the 
troublous  hour, 
Which  vex  the  fretful  element  of  life. 
Me  rather  save,  O  dread  disposing 
Power, 
From  those  dead  calms,  that  flat  and 
hopeless  lull, 
In  which  the  dull  sea  rots  around 

the  bark. 
And  nothing  moves  save  the  sure- 
creeping  dark, 
That  slowly  settles  o'er  an  idle  hull. 

L  the  st< 
the  stir 

That  shakes  the  soul,  man  finds 
his  power  and  place 
Among  the  elements.     Deeps  with 
deeps  confer, 


3IC 


THE  WANDERER. 


Aud  Nature's  secret  settles  in  her 

face. 
Let  ocean  to  his  inmost  caves  be 

stirred  ; 
Let  the  wild  light  be  smitten  from 

the  cloud. 
The  decks  may  reel,  the  masts  be 

snapt  and  bowed, 
But  God  hath  spoken  out,  and  man 

hath  heard  ! 

Farewell,  you  lost  inhabitants  of  my 
mind, 
Tou    fair     ephemerals    of    faded 
hours  ! 
Farewell,  you  lands  of  exile,  whence 
each  wind 
Of  memory  steals  with  fragrance 
over  flowers  ! 
Farewell,  Cordelia  I  Ella  !  ...  But 
not  so 
Farewell    the    memories    of    you 

which  I  have 
Till  strangers  shall  be  sitting  on 
my  grave 
And  babbling  of  the  dust  which  lies 
below. 

Blessed  the  man  whose  life,  how  sad 
soe'er, 
Hath  felt  the  presence,  and  yet 
keeps  the  trace 
Of  one  pure  woman  I   With  religious 
care 
"We  close  the  doors,  with  reverent 
feet  we  pace 
The  vacant  chambers,  where,  of  yore, 
a  Queen 
One  night  hath  rested.     From  my 

Past's  pale  walls 
Yet  gleam  the  unf  aded  fair  memo- 
rials 
Of  her  whose  beauty  there,  awhile, 
hath  been. 

She  passed,  into  my  youth,  at  its 

night-time, 
When  low  the  lamplight,  and  the 

music  husht. 
She  passed  and  passed  away.     Some 

broken  rhymo 


Scrawled  on  the  panel  or  the  pane  : 

the  crusht 
And  faded  rose  she  dropped  :   the 

page  she  turned 
And  finished  not  :  the  ribbon  or 

the  knot 
That  fluttered    from  her  .... 

Stranger,  harm  them  not  ! 
I  keep    these    sacred    relics  undis- 

cerned. 

Men's  truths  are  often  lies,  and  wo- 
men's lies 
Often  the  setting  of  a  trath  most 
tender 
In  an  unconscious  poesy.     The  child 
cries 
To  clutch  the  star  that  lights  its 
rosy  splendor 
In  airy  Edens  of  the  west  afar. 
"  Ah,  folly! "  sighs  the  father,  o'er 

his  book. 
"  Millions  of  miles  above  thy  fool- 
ish nook 
Of  infantile  desire,  the  Hesperus-star 

"Descends  not,  child,  to  twinkle  on 
thy  cot." 
Then  readjusts  his  blind-wise  spec- 
tacles, 
While  tears  to  sobs  are  changing, 
were  it  not 
The    mother,   with    those  tender 
syllables 
Which    even    Dutch    mothers    can 
make  musical  too, 
Murmurs,  "  Sleep,  sleep,  my  little 

one  !  and  I 
Will  pluck  thy  star  for  thee,  and 
by  and  by 
Lay  it  upon  thy  pillow  bright  with 
dew." 

And  the  child  sleeps,  and  dreams  of 
stars  whose  light 
Beams    in    his    own    bright  eyea 
when  he  awakes. 
So  sleep  !  so  dream  !   If  aught  I  read 
aright 
That  star,  poor  babe,  which  o'ei 
thy  cradle  shakes, 


PALINGENESIS, 


Sir 


Thy  fate  may  fall,  in  after  years,  to 
be 
That  other  child  that,  like  thee, 

loves  the  star, 
And,  like  thee,  weeps  to  find  it  all 
so  far. 
Feeling  its  force  in  his  nativity  : — 

That  other  infant,  all  as  weak,  as 
wild, 
As  passionate,  and  as  helpless,  as 
thou  art, 
Wliom  men  will  call  a  Poet  (Poet,  or 
child, 
The  star  is  still  so  distant  from  the 
heart  !) 
If  so,  heaven  grant  that  thou  mayst 
find  at  last, 
Since  such  there  are,  some  woman, 

whose  sweet  smile, 
Pitying,  may  thy  fond  fancy  yet 
beguile 
To  dream  the  star,  which  thou  hast 

sought,  thou  hast  ! 
For  men,  if  thou  shouidst  heed  what 
they  may  say. 
Will    break    thy  heart,   or   leave 
thee,  like  themselves, 
No  heart  for  breaking.     Wherefore 
I  do  pray 
My  book  may  lie  upon  no  learned 
shelves, 
But  that  in  some  deep  summer  eve, 
perchance. 
Some    woman,    melancholy-eyed, 
and  pale, 


Whose  heart,  like  mine,  hath  suf- 
fered, may  this  tale 
Read  by  the  soft  light  of  her  own  ro- 
mance. 

Go  forth  over  the  wide  world.  Song 
of  mine  ! 
As  Noah's  dove  out  of  his  boBom 
flew 
Over  the  desolate,  vast,  and  wander- 
ing brine. 
Seek  thou  thy   nest    afar.      Thy 
plaint  renew 
From  heart  to  heart,  and  on  from 
land  to  land 
Fly  boldly,  till  thou  find  that  un- 
known friend 
Whose  face,  in  dreams,  above  my 
own  doth  bend. 
Then  tell  that  spirit  what  it  will  un- 
derstand. 

Why  men  can  tell  to  strangers  all 
the  tale 
From  friends  reserved.    And  tell 
that  spirit,  my  Song, 
Wherefore  1  have  not  faltered  to  un- 
veil 
The  cryptic  forms  of  error  and  of 
wrong. 
And  say,  I  suffered  more  than  I  re- 
corded. 
That  each  man's  life  is  all  men's 

lesson.     Say, 
And  let  the  world  believe  thee,  as 
it  may, 
Thy  tale  is  true,  however  weakly 
worded. 


3" 


TANNHAUSER; 


TANNHAUSER ;  * 


OB, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


A  portion  of  this  poem  was  written  by  another  hand. 


This  is  the  Land,  the  happy  valleys 

these, 
Broad  breadths  of  plain,  blue-veined 

by  many  a  stream, 
Umbrageous  hills,  sweet  glades,  and 

forests  fair, 
O'er  which  our  good  liege,  Landgrave 

Herman,  rules. 
This  is  Thuringia :  yonder,  on  the 

heights, 
Is  Wartburg,  seat  of  our  dear  lord's 

abode. 
Famous  through  Christendom    for 

many  a  feat 
Of  deftest  knights,    chief  stars  of. 

chivalry, 
At  tourney  in  its  courts  ;  nor  more 

renowned 
For  deeds  of  Prowess  than  exploits 

of  Art, 
Achieved  when,  vocal  in  its  Muses* 

hall. 
The  minstref-knights  their  glorious 

jousts  renew. 
And  for  the  laurel  wage  harmonious 

war. 
On  this  side  spreads  the  Chase  in 

wooded  slopes 
And  sweet  acclivities  •,  and,  all  be- 
yond. 


The  open  flats  lie  fruitful  to  the  sun 

Full  many  a  league ;  till  dark 
against  the  sky, 

Bounding  the  limits  of  our  lord's  do- 
main» 

The  Hill  of  Horsel  rears  his  horrid 
front. 

Woe  to  the  man  who  wanders  in  tho 
vast 

Of  those  unhallowed  solitudes,  if 
Sin, 

Quickening  the  lust  of  carnal  appe- 
tite. 

Lurk  secret  in  his  heart :  for  all 
their  caves 

Echo  weird  strains  of  magic,  direful- 
sweet, 

That  lap  the  wanton  sense  in  bliss- 
ful ease  ; 

While  through  the  ear  a  reptile  mu- 
sic creeps. 

And,  blandly-busy,  round  about  the 
soul 

Weaves  its  fell  web  of  sounds.  Tho 
unhappy  wight 

Thus  captive  made  in  soft  and  silken 
bands 

Of  tangled  harmony,  is  led  away — 

Away  adown  the  ever-darkening 
caves. 


*  The  reader  is  solicited  to  adopt  the  German  pronunciation  of  TannhAUSEB,  by 
sounding  it  as  if  it  were  written,  in  English,  Tannhoieer. 


OR,  THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


313 


A^ay  from  fairness  and  the  face  of 

God, 
Away  into  the  mountain's   mystic 

womb, 
To  where,  reclining  on  her  impious 

couch 
All  the  fair  length  of  her  lascivious 

limbs, 
Languid  in  light  from  roseate  tapers 

flung, 
Incensed  with  perfumes,  tended  on 

by  fays. 
The  lustful  Queen,  waiting  damna- 
tion, holds 
Her  bestial  revels.     The  Queen  of 

Beauty  once, 
A  goddess  called  and  worshipped  in 

the  days 
When    men    their    own    infirmities 

adored. 
Deeming  divine  who  in  themselves 

summed  up 
The  full-blown  passions  of  human- 
ity. 
Large  fame  and  lavish  service  had 

she  then, 
Venus  ycleped,  of  all  the  01}Tnpian 

crew 
Least  continent  of  Spirits  and  most 

fair. 
So  reaped  she  honor  of  unwistful 

men, 
Roman,   or  Greek,  or  dwellers   on 

the  plains 
Of  Egypt,  or  the  isles  to  utmost  Ind ; 
Till  came  the  crack  of  that  tremen- 
dous Doom 
That  sent  the  false  gods  shivering 

from  their  seats, 
Shattered    the    superstitious    dome 

that  bleared 
Heaven's  face  to  man,  and  on  the 

lurid  world 
Let  in  eiiulgence  of  untainted  light. 
As  when,  laid  bare  beneath  the  del- 

ver's  toil 
On    some    huge    bulk    of    buried 

masonry 
In  hoar  Assyria,  suddenly  revealed 
A  chamber,  gay  with  sculpture  and 

the  pomp 


Of  pictured  tracery  on  its  glowing 
walls. 

No  sooner  breathes  the  wholesome 
heavenly  air 

Then  fast  its  colored  bravery  lades, 
and  fall 

Its    ruined  statues,  crumbled  from 
their  crypts, 

And  all  its  gauds  grow  dark  at  sight 
of  day ; 

So  darkened  and  to  dusty  ruin  fell 

The  fleeting  glories  of  a  Pagan  faith, 

Bared  to  Truth's  influences  bland, 
and  srait 

Blind  by  the  splendors  of  the  Beth- 
lehem Dawn. 

Then  from  their  shattered  temple  in 
the  minds 

Of  men,  and  from  their  long  familiar 
homes, 

Their  altars,  fanes,  and  shrines,  the 
sumptuous  seats 

Of  their  mendacious    oracles,   out- 
shuik 

The  wantons  of  Olympus.      Forth 
they  fled, 

Forth  from  Dodona,  Delos,  and  the 
depths 

Of  wooded  Ida  ;  from  Athense  forth, 

Cithseron,  Paphos,  Thebes,  and  all 
their  groves 

Of  oak  or  poplar,  dismally  to  roam 

About  the  new  baptized   earth  ;  ex- 
iled, 

Bearing  the  curse,  yet  suffered  for  a 
space, 

By  Heaven's  clear  sapience  and  in- 
scrutable ken, 

To  range  the  wide  world,  and  assay 
their  powers 

To    unregenerate    redeemed    man- 
kind : 

If  haply  they  by  shadows  and  by 
shows. 

Phantasmagoria,        and       illusions 
wrought 

Of  sight  or  sound  by  sorcery,  may 
draw 

Unwary  men,  or  weak,  into  the  nets 

Of  Satan  their  great  Captain.    She 
renowned 


314 


''ANNHXUSER 


**The  fairest,"    fleeing    from    her 

Cyprian  isle, 
Swept  to   the    northwards  many   a 

league,  and  lodged 
At    length    on   Horsel,   into  whose 

dark  womb 
She    crept    confounded.       Thither 

soon  she  di'ew 
Lewd  Spirits   to  herself,  and   there 

abides, 
Holding  her  devilish  orgies ;  and  has 

power 
With  siren  voices  crafty  to  compel 
Into  her    wanton    home     unhappy 

men 
Whose  souls  to  sin  are  prone.     The 

pure  at  heart 
Nathless  may  roam  about  lier  pesti- 
lent hill 
Untainted,   proof  against  perfidious 

sounds 
Within   whose  ears   an    angel  ever 

sings 
Good    tidings    of    great    joy.      Nor 

even  they. 
Whose    hearts  are  gross,  and   who 

inflamed  with  lust 
Enter,  entrapped  by  sorceries,  to  her 

cave. 
Are    damned    beyond    redemption. 

For  a  while, 
Slaves  of  their  bodies,  in  the  sloughs 

of  Sin, 
They  roll  contented,  wallowing   in 

the  arms 
Of  their  libidinous  goddess.     But, 

erelong, 
Comes  loathing  of  the   sensual  air 

they  breathe. 
Loathing  of  light  unhallowed,  sick- 
ening sense 
Of  surfeited  enjoyment  ;  and  their 

lips, 
Spuming  the  reeky  pasture,  yearn 

for  draughts 
Of  rock-rebounding  rills,  their  eyes 

for  sight 
Of  Heaven,  their  limbs  for  lengths 

of  dewy  grass  : 
What  time  sharp  Conscience  pricks 

them,  and  awake 


Starts  the  requickened  soul  with  all 
her  powers, 

And  breaks,  if  so  she  will,  the  mur- 
derous spell. 

Calling  on  God.  God  to  her  rescue 
sends 

Voiced  seraphims  that  lead  the 
sinner  forth 

From  darkness  unto  day,  from  foul 
embrace 

Of  that  bloat  Queen  into  the  mother- 
lap 

Of  earth,  and  the  caressent  airs  of 
Heaven  ; 

Where  he,  by  strong  presistency  of 
prayer. 

By  painful  pilgrimage,  by  lengths  of 
fast 

That  tame  the  rebel  flesh,  by  many 
a  night 

Of  vigil,  days  of  deep  repentant 
tears. 

May  cleanse  his  soul  of  her  adulter- 
ate stains, 

May  from  his  sin-incrusted  spirit 
shake 

The  leprous  scales, — and,  purely  at 
the  feet 

Of  his  redemption  falling,  may  arise 

Of  Christ  accepted.  Whoso  doubts 
the  truth, 

Doubting  how  deep  divine  Compas- 
sion is. 

Lend  to  my  tale  a  willing  ear,  and 
learn. 

Full  twenty  summers  have  fled  o'er 

the  land, 
A  score  of  winters  on  our  Land- 
grave's head 
Have  showered  their  snowy  honors, 

since  the  days 
When  in  his  court  no  nobler  knight 

was  known, 
And  in  his  halls  no  happier  bard  was 

heard. 
Than  bright  Tannhauser.     Warrior, 

minstrel,  he 
Throve  for  a  while  within  the  general 

eye,  [tales, 

As    some   king-cedar,  in  Cnisader 


OR.  THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


S^S 


The  stateliest  growth  of  Lebanonian 

groves  : 
For  now  I  sing  him  in  his  matchless 

prime, 
Not,  as  in  latter  days,  defaced  and 

marred 
By  secret   sin,  and   like   the  wasted 

torch 
F'jund   in   the    dank    grass    at  the 

ghastly  dawn. 
After  a  witches'  revel.     He  was  a 

man 
Ld  whom  prompt  Natiu-e,  as  in  those 

soft  climes 
Where  life  is  indolently  opulent, 
Blossomed  unhid   to  graces   barely 

won 
From   tedious    culture,   where  less 

kindly  stars 
Cold  influence   keep  ;  and  trothful 

men,  who  once 
■Looked  in  his  lordly,  luminous  eyes, 

and  scanned 
His     sinewous     frame,   compact  of 

pliant  power. 
Aver    he    was    the    fairest-favored 

knight 
That  ever,   in  the  light  of   ladies' 

looks. 
Made  gay  these  goodly  halls.     Oh  I 

deeper  dole,  [fair, 

That  so   august  a  Spirit,  sphered  so 
Should  from  the   starry  sessions   of 

his  peers 
Decline,    to     quench   so    bright    a 

brilliancy 
In  Hell's  sick  spume.     Ay  me,  the 

deeper  dole  I 
From  yonder  tower  the    wheeling 

lapwing  loves 
Beyond  all  others,  that  o'ertope  the 

pines, 
And    from  his  one  white,   wistful 

window  stares 
Into  the  sullen  heart  o'  the  land, — 

erewhile 
The  wandering    woodman    oft,   at 

night-fall,  heard 
A  sad,  wild  strain  of  solitaiy  song 
Float  o'er  the  forest.     WhooO  heard 

it,  paused 


Compassionately,    crossed    liimself, 

and  sighed, 
"Alas  !  poor  Princess,  to  thy  piteous 

moan 
Heaven  send  sweet  peace  !"  Heaven 

heard,  and  now  she  lies 
Under  the  marble,  'mid   the  silent 

tombs. 
Calm  with  her  kindred  ;  as  her  soul 

above 
Rests  with  the  saints  of  God. 

The  brother's  child 
Of  our  good  lord  the  Landgrave  was 

this  maid. 
And  here  with  him  abode  ;  for  in  the 

breach 
At  Ascalon,  her  sire  in  Holy  Land 
Had  fallen,  fighting  for  the  Cross. 

These  halls 
Sheltered  her  infancy,  and  here  she 

grew 
Among  the  shaggy  barons,  like  the 

pale, 
Mild-eyed,  March- violet  of  the  North, 

that  blows 
Bleak  under  bergs  of  ice.     Full  fair 

she  grew, 
And  all   men  loved   the  rare  Eliza- 
beth ; 
But  she,  of  all  men,  loved  one  man 

the  most, 
Tannhliuser,   minstrel,    knight,   the 

man  in  whom 
All  mankind  flowered.  Fairer  growth 

indeed. 
Of  knighthood   never  blossomed   tu 

the  eye  ; 
But,  furled  beneath  that  florid   sur- 
face, lurked 
A  vice   of  nature,  breeding  death, 

not  life  ; 
Such  as  where  some  rich  Roman,  to 

delight 
Luxurious    days  with  labyrinthian 

walks 
Of  rose  and  lily,  marble  fountains, 

forms 
Wanton  of  Greece  or  Nymph,  and 

winding  frieze 
With  sculpture  rough,  hath  decked 

the  summer  haunts 


9T6 


TANNHAUSER 


Of  his  voluptuous  villa, — tliere,  fes- 
tooned 

With  flowers,  among  the  Graces  and 
the  Gods, 

The  lurking  fever  glides. 

A  dangerous  skill, 

Caught  from  the  custom  of  those 
troubadours 

That  roam  the  wanton  South,  too 
near  the  homes 

Of  the  lost  gods,  had  crept  in  care- 
less use 

Among  our  northern  bards  ;  to  play 
the  thief 

Upon  the  poets  of  a  pagan  time, 

And  steal,  to  purfle  their  embroid- 
ered lays, 

Voluptuous  trappings  of  lascivious 
lore. 

Hence  had  Tannhauser,  from  of  old, 
indulged 

In  song  too  lavish  license  to  mislead 

The    sense    among    those    fair  but 
phantom  forms 

That  haunt  the  unhallowed  past  : 
wherefroD)  One  Shape 

Forth  of  the  cloudy  circle  gradual 
grew 

Distinct,  in  dissolute  beauty.    She  of 
old. 

Who  from  the  idle  foam  uprose,  to 
reign  [fiend, 

In    fancies    all    as    idle, — that  fair 

Venus,  whose  temples  are  the  ve:us 
in  youth. 

Now  more  and  ever  more  she  mixed 

herself 
With  all  his  moods,  and  whispered 

in  his  walks  ; 
Or  through  the  misty  minster,  when 

he  kneeled 
Meek  on  the  flint,  athwart  the  in- 
cense-smoke 
She    stole    on    sleeping    sunbeams, 

sprinkled  sounds 
Of  cymbals  through  the  silver  psalms, 

and  marred 
His  adoration:  most  of  all,  whene'er 
He  sought  to  fan  those  fires  of  holy 

love 


That,  sleeping  oftenest,  sometimes 

leapt  to  flame, 
Kindled  by  kindred  passion  in  the 

eyes 
Of  sweet  Elizabeth,  round  him  rose 

and  rolled 
That  miserable  magic  ;  and,  at  times, 
It  drove  him  forth  to  wander  in  the 

waste 
And  desert  places,  there  where  pray- 

erless  man 
Is  most  within  the  power  of  prowling 

fiends. 
Time  put  his  sickle  in  among  the 

days. 
Outcropped  the  coming  harvest;  and 

there  came 
An  evening  with  the  Princess,  when 

they  twain 
Together  ranged  the    terrace    that 

o'erlaps 
The  great  south  garden.    All  her 

simple  hair 
A  single  sunbeam  from  the  sleepy 

west 
O'erfloated  ;  swam  her  soft  blue  eyes 

suffused 
With  tender  ruth,  and  her  meek  face 

was  moved 
To  one  slow,  serious  smile,  that  stolo 

to  find 
Its  resting-place  on  his. 

Then,  while  he  looked 
On  that  pure  loveliness,  within  him- 
self 
He  faintly  felt  a  mystery  like  pur»^ 

love  : 
For  through  the  arid  hollows  of  a 

heart 
Sered  by  delirious  dreams,  the  dewy 

.  sense 
Of  innocent  worship  stole.    The  one 

great  word 
That  long  had  hovered  in  the  silent 

mind 
Now  on  the  lip  half  settled  ;  for  not 

yet 
Had   love   between    Ihem   been    a 

spoken  sound 
For  after  speech  to  lean  on :  only 

here 


J 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


3t7 


And  there,  where  scattered  pauses 

strewed  their  talk, 
Love  seemed  to  o'erpoise  the  silence, 

like  a  star 
Seen  through  a  tender  trouble  of 

light  clouds. 
But,  in  that  moment,  some  myste- 
rious touch, 
A  thought— who  knows  ?— a  memory 

— something  caught 
Perchance  from  flying  faucies,taking 

form 
Among  the  sunset  clouds,  or  scented 

gusts 
Of  evening  through   the    gorgeous 

glooms,  shrunk  up 
His  better  angel,  and  at  once  awaked 
The  carnal  creature  sleeping  in  the 

flesh. 
Then  died  within  his  heart  that  word 

of  life 
Unspoken,  which,  if  spoken,  might 

have  saved 
The  dreadful  doom  impending.     So 

they  twain 
parted,  and  nothing  said  :  she  to  her 

tower. 
There  with  meek  wonder  to  renew 

the  calm 
And  customary  labor  of  the  loom  ; 
And  he  into  the  gradual-creeping 

dark 
VVTiich  now  began  to  draw  the  rooks 

to  roost 
Along  the  windless  woods. 

His  soul  that  eve 
Shook  strangely  if  some  flickering 

shadow  stole 
Across    the    slopes    where    sunset, 

sleeping  out 
I'he  day's  last  dream,  yet  lingered 

low.     Old  songs 
Wero    sweet  about   his    brain,  .old 

fancies  fair 
O'erflowed  with  lurid  life  the  lonely 

land  : 
The    twilight    trooped    with    antic 

shapes,  and  swarmed 
Above  him,  and  the  deep  mysterious 

woods  [doom. 

With  mystic  music  drew  him  to  his 


So  rapt,  with  idle  and  with  errant 
foot 

He  wandered  on  to  Horsel,  and  those 
glades 

Of  melancholy  fame,  whose  poison- 
ous glooms. 

Decked  with  the  gleaming  hemlock, 
darkly  fringe 

The    Mount  of  Venus.      There,   a 
drowsy  sense 

Of  languor  seized  him ;  and  he  sat 
him  down 

Among  a  litter  of  loose  stones  and 
blocks 

Of  broken  columns,  overrun  with 
weed. 

Remnants    of    heathen    work    that 
sometime  propped 

A  pagan  temple. 

Suddenly,  the  moon. 

Slant  from  the  shoulder  of  the  mon- 
strous hill, 

Swung  o'er  a  sullen  lake,  and  softly 
touched 

With  light  a  shattered  statue  in  tho 
weed. 

He  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  all  at  once 

Bright  in  her  baleful  beauty,  he  be- 
held 

The  goddess  of  his  dreams.      Be- 
holding whom, 

Lost  to  his  love,  forgetful  of  his  faith, 

And  fevered  by  the  stimulated  sense 

Of  reprobate    desire,   the  madman 
cried  : 

"  Descend,  Dame  Yenus,  on  my  soul 
descend  ! 

Break  up  the  marble  sleep  of  those 
still  brows 

Where  beauty  broods !    Down  all  my 
senses  swim, 

As  yonder  moon  to  yonder  love-lit 
lake 

Swims  down  in  glory  ! " 

Hell  the  horrid  prayer 

Accorded  with  a  curse.    Scarce  those 
wild  words 

Were  uttered,  when  like  mist  the 
marble  moved, 

Flusht  with  false  life.    Deep  In  a 
sleepy  cloud 


3x8 


TANNHAUSER, 


He    seemed   to    sink    beneath    tlie 

sumptuous  face 
Leaned  o'er  him,— all  the  whiteness, 

all  the  warmth, 
And  all  the  luxury  of  languid  limbs, 
Where    violet  vein-streaks,   lost  in 

limpid  lengths 
Of  snowy  surface,  wander  faint  and 

fine  ; 
Whilst  cymballed  music,  stolen  from 

underneath, 
Creeps  through  a  throbbing  light  that 

grows  and  glows 
From  glare  to  greater  glare,  until  it 

gluts 
And  gulfs  him  in. 

And  from  that  hour,  in  court, 
And  chase,  and  tilted  tourney,  many 

a  month, 
From  mass  in  holy  church,  and  mirth 

in  hall, 
From  all  the  fair  assemblage  of  his 

peers. 
And  all  the  feudatory  festivals, 
Men  missed  Tannhauser. 

At  the  first,  as  when 
From  some  great  oak  his  goodliest 

branch  is  lopped, 
The    little    noisy  birds,   that   built 

about 
The  foliage,  gather  in  the  gap  with 

shrill 
And  querulous  curiosity  ;  even  so, 
From  all  the  twittering  tongues  that 

thronged  the  court 
Rose  general  hubbub  of    astonish- 
ment, 
And  vext  surmise  about  the  absent 

man  : 
Why  absent  ?  whither  wandered  ?  on 

what  quest ' 
Of    errant    prowess  ? — for,    as    yet, 

none  knew 
His  miserable  fall.     But  time  wore 

on, 
The  wonder  wore  away  ;  round  ab- 
sence crept 
The  weed  of  custom,  and  the  absent 

one 
Became  at  last  a  memory,  and  no 

more. 


One  heart  within  that  memory  lived 

aloof  ; 
One  face,  remembering  his,  forgot  to 

smile  ; 
Our    Landgrave's    niece    the    old 

familiar  ways 
Walked  like  a  ghost  with  unfamiliar 

looks. 

Time  put  his  sickle  in  among  the 

days. 
The  rose  burned  ouc  ;  red  Autumn 

lit  the  woods  ; 
The  last  snows,  melting,  changed  to 

snowy  clouds  ; 
And  Spring  once  more  with  incan- 
tations came 
To  wake  the  buried  year.     Then  did 

our  liege, 
Lord  Landgrave  Herman,— for  he 

loved  his  niece. 
And  lightly  from  her  simple  heart 

iiad  won 
The  secret  of  lost  smiles,  and  why 

she  drooped, 
A  wilted  flower,— thinking  to  dispel. 
If  that  might  be,  her  mournf  ulness, 

let  cry 
By  heralds  that,  at  coming  Whitsun- 
tide, 
The  minstrel-knights    in  Wartburg 

should  convene 
To  hold  high  combat  in  the  craft  of 

song, 
And  sing  before  the  Princess  for  the 

prize. 

But,  ere  that  time,  it  fell  upon  a  day 

When  our  good  lord  went  forth  to 
hunt  the  hart, 

That  he  with  certain  of  his  court, 
'mid  whom 

Was  Wolfram,— once  Tannhauser' 3 
friend,  himself 

Among  the  minstrels  held  in  high  re- 
nown,— 

Came  down  the  Wartburg  valley, 
where  they  deemed 

To  hold  the  hart  at  siege,  and 
found  him  not  : 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS, 


3*9 


But  found,  far  down,  at  bottom  of 

the  glade, 
Beneath  a  broken  cross,  a   lonely 

knight 
Who  sat  on  a  great  stone,  watching 

the  clouds. 
And  Wolfram,  being  a  little  in  the 

van 
Of    all  his   fellows,  .eager  for  the 

hunt. 
Hurriedly '  ran  to   question    of    the 

knight 
If  he  had  viewed  the  hart.    But  when 

he  came 
To  parley  with  him,  suddenly  he 

gave 
A  shout  of  great  good  cheer  ;  for,  all 

at  once, 
In  that  same  knight  he  saw,  and 

knew,  though  changed, 
Tannhauser,    his    old    friend     and 

fellow-bard. 

Now,    Wolfram    long    had      loved 

Elizabeth 
As  one  should  love  a  star  in  heaven, 

who  knows 
The  distance  of  it,  and  the  reach less- 

ness. 
But  when  he  knew  Tannhauser  in 

her  heart 
(For  loving  eyes,  in  eyes  beloved,  are 

swift 
To  search  out  secrets)  not  the  less 

his  own 
Clave  unto  both  ;    and,  from  that 

time,  his  love 
Lived     like    an     orphan     child    in 

charity, 
Whose  loss  came  early,  and  is  gently 

borne. 
Too  deep  for  tears,  too  constant  for 

complaint. 
And,  therefore,  in  the  absence  of  his 

friend 
His  inmost  heart  was  heavy,  when 

he  saw 
The  shadow  of  that  absence  in  the 

face 
He   loved    beyond    all    faces    upon 

earth. 


So  that  when  now  he  found  that 

friend  again 
Whom  he  had  missed  and  mourned, 

right  glad  was  he 
Both    for    his    own    and    for    the 

Princess'  sake  : 
And  ran  and  fell  upon  Tannhauser' s 

neck. 
And  all  for  joy  constrained  him  to 

his  heart. 
Calling  his  fellows  from  the  neigh- 
boring hills, — 
Who,  crowding,  came,  great  hearts 

and  open  arms 
To  welcome  back  their  peer.     The 

Landgrave  then. 
When  he  perceived  his  well-belove'd 

knight. 
Was  passing  glad,  and  would  have 

questioned  him 
Of  his  long  absence.     But  the  man 

himself 
Could  answer  nothing  ;  staring  with 

blank  eyes 
From  face  to  face,  then  up  into  the 

blue 
Bland  heavens  above  ;  astonied,  and 

like  one 
Who,  suddenly  awaking  out  of  sleep 
After  sore  sickness,  knows  his  friends 

again, 
And  would  peruse  their  faces,  but 

breaks  off 
To  list  the  frolic    bleating  of    the 

lamb 
In  far-off  fields,  and  wonder  at  the 

world 
And  all  its  strangeness.  Then,  while 

the  glad  knights 
Clung  round  him,  wrung  his  hands, 

and  dinned  his  ears 
With  clattering  query,  our  fair  lord 

himself 
Unfolded  how,  upon  the     morrow 

morn. 
There  should  be  holden  festive  in 

his  halls 
High  meeting  of  the  minstrels  of 

the  land. 
To  sing  before  the  Princess  for  the 

prize  ; 


330 


tannhXuser  . 


Whereto  he  bade  him  with,  * '  O  sir, 

be  sure 
There  hves  a  young  voice  that  shall 

tax  your  wit 
To  justify  this  absence  from  your 

friends. 
We  trust,  at  least,   that  you  have 

brought  us  back 
A  score  of  giants'  beards,  or  dragons' 

tails, 
To  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  our  fair 

niece. 
For  think  not,   truant,   that  Eliza- 
beth 
Will  hold  you  lightly  quitted." 

At  that  name, 
Elizabeth,  he  started  as  a  man 
That  hears  on  foreign  shores,  from 

alien  lips, 
Some  name  familiar  to  his  father- 
land ; 
And  all  at  once  the  man's  heart  inly 

yearns 
For    brooks    that  bubble,   and    for 

woods  that  wave 
Before  his  father's  door,  while  he 

forgets 
The  forms  about  him.     So,  Tann- 

hauser  mused 
A  little  space,  then  faltered  :  "  O  my 

liege, 
Fares  my  good  lady  well  ? — I  pray 

my  lord 
That  I  may  draw  me  hence  a  little 

while, 
For  all  my  mind  is  troubled  :  and, 

indeed, 
I  know  not  if  my  harp  have  lost  his 

skill, 
But,  skilled,  or  skilless,  it  shall  find 

some  tone 
To  render  thanks  to-morrow  to  my 

lord  ; 
To  whose  behests  a  bondsman,  in  so 

far 
As  my  poor    service  holds,  I  will 

assay 
To  sing  before  the  Princess  for  the 

prize." 
Then,  on  the  morrow  mom,  from  far 

and  near 


Flowed  in  the  feudatory  lords.    The 

hills 
Broke  out  ablaze  with  banners,  and 

rung  loud 
With    tingling    trumpet  notes,  and 

neighing  steeds. 
For  all  the  land,  elate  with  lusty 

life, 
Buzzed  like  a  beehive  in  the  sun  ; 

and  all 
The  castle  swarmed  from  bridge  to 

barbican 
With  mantle   and  with  mail,  whilst 

minster  bells 
Rang  hoarse  their  happy  chimes,  till 

tho  high  noon 
Clanged  from  the  towers.      Then, 

o'er  the  platform  stoled 
And  canopied  in    crimson,    lightly 

blew 
The  sceptred  heralds  on  the  silvei 

trump 
Intense    sonorous  music,   sounding 

in 
The  knights  to  hall.     Shrill  clinked 

the  corridors 
Through  all  the  courts  with  clashing 

heels,  or  moved 
With  silken   murmurs,  and  elastic 

sounds 
Of  lady  laughters  light ;   as  in  they 

flowed 
Lord,  Liegeman,  Peer,  and  Prince, 

and  Paladin, 
And  dame  and  damsel,  clad  in  dimp- 
ling silk 
And  gleaming    pearl  ;    who,   while 

the  groaning  roofs 
Re-echoed  royal  music,  swept  adown 
The  spacious  hall,  with  due  obei- 
sance made 
To  the  high  dais,  and  on  glittering 

seats 
Dropped  one  by  one,  like  flocks  of 

burnished  birds 
That  settle  down  with  sunset-painted 

plumes 
On  gorgeous  woods.     Again  from 

the  outer  wall 
The  intermitted  trumpet  blared  ;  and 

each 


GR,  THE  PA  TTLE  OF  THE  BARDS, 


321 


Pert  page,  a-tiptoe,  from  the  benches 
leaned 

To  see  the  minstrel-knights,  gold- 
filleted, 

That  entered  now  the  hall :  Sir 
Mandeville, 

The  Swan  of  Eisnach  ;  Wilfrid  of 
the  Hills  ; 

Wolfram,  sm-named  of  Willow- 
brook  ;  and  next 

Tannhauser,  christened  of  the  Gold- 
en Harp  ; 

With  Walter  of  the  Ileron-chase  ; 
and  Max, 

The  seer  ;  Sir  Rudolph,  of  the 
Ravencrest  ; 

And  Franz,  the  falconer.  They  en- 
tered, each 

In  order,  followed  by  a  blooming  boy 

That  bore  his  harp,  and,  pacing  for- 
ward, bowed 

Before  the  Landgrave  and  Elizabeth. 

Pale  sat  the  Princess  in  her  chair  of 
state,  [lied 

Perusing  with  fixed  eyes,  that  all  be- 

Her  throbbing  heart,  the  carven 
architrave, 

Whereon  the  intricate  much-vexed 
design 

Of  leaf  and  stem  disintertwined  itself 

With  infinite  laboriousness,  at  last 

Escaping  in  a  flight  of  angel  forms  ; 

As  though  the  carver's  thought  had 
been  to  show 

The  weary  struggle  of  the  soul  to  free 

Her  flight  from  earth's  bewilder- 
ment, and  all 

That  frets  her  in  the  flesh.  But 
when,  ere  while. 

The  minstrels  entered,  and  Tann- 
hauser bowed 

Before  the  dais,  the  Landgrave,  at 
her  side. 

Saw,  as  he  mused  what  theme  to 
give  for  song, 

The  pallid  forehead  of  Elizabeth 

Flush  to  the  fair  roots  of  her  golden 
hair. 

And  thought  within  himself  :  "  Our 
knight  delays 

3£ 


To  own  a  love  that  aims  so  near  our 

throne  ; 
Hence,  haply,  this  late  absence  from 

our  court, 
And  those  bewildered  moods  whicli 

I  have  marked  : 
But  since  love  lightly  catche??,  where 

it  can, 
At  any  means   to    make  itself  ap- 
proved. 
And  since  the  singer  may  to  song 

confide 
What  the  man  dares  not  trust  to 

simple  speech, 
I,  therefore,  so  to  ease  two  hearts  at 

once. 
And  signify  our  favor  unto  both, 
Will  to  our  well-belove'd  minstrels 

give 
No  theme  less  sweet    than  Love  : 

for,  surely,  he 
That  loves  the  best,  will  sing  the 

best,  and  bear 
The  prize  from  all."    Therewith  the 

Landgrave  rose. 
And  all  the  murmuring  Hall  was 

hushed  to  hear. 

"  O  well-beloved   minstrels,   in  my 

mind 
I  do  embrace  you  all,  and  heartily 
Bid  you  a  lavish  welcome  to  these 

halls. 
Oft  have  you  flooded  this  fair  space 

with  song. 
Waked  these  voiced  walls,  and  vocal 

made  yon  roof, 
As  waves  of  surging  music  lapped 

against 
Its    resonant    rafters.     Often    have 

your  strains 
Ennobled  souls  of  true  nobility, 
Rapt  by  your  perfect  pleadings  in  the 

cause 
Of  all  things  pure  unto  a  purer  sense 
Of  their  exceeding  loveliness.     No 

power 
Is  subtler  o'er  the  spirit  of  man  than 

Song — 
Sweet  echo  of  great  thoughts,  that, 

in  the  mind 


322 


TANNHAUSER^ 


Of  him  who  hears  congenial  echoes 

waking, 
Remultlplies  the  praise  of  what  is 

good. 
ISong  cheers  the  emulous  spirit  to 

the  top 
Of    Virtue's    rugged    steep,    from 

whence,  all  heights 
Of  human  worth  attained,  the  mor- 
tal may 
Conjecture  of  God's  unattainable, 
Which    is  Perfection. — Faith,    with 

her  sisters  twain 
Of  Hope  and  Charity,  ye  oft  have 

sung. 
And  loyal  Truth  have  lauded,  and 

have  wreathed 
A  coronal  of  music  round  the  brows 
Of  stainless  Chastity  ;  nor  less  have 

praised 
High-minded  Yalor,  in  whose  right- 
eous hand 
Bums  the  great  sword  of  flaming 

Fortitude, 
And  have  stirred  up  to  deeds  of  high 

emprize 
Our  noble  knights  (yourselves  among 

the  noblest) 
Whether  on  German    soil  for  me, 

their  prince. 
Fighting,  or  in  the.  Land  of  Christ 

for  God. 
Sing  ye  to-day  another  theme  ;  to-day 
Within  our  glad  society  we  see. 
To  fellowship  of  loving  friends  re- 
stored, 
A  long-missed  face  ;  and  hungerly 

our  ears 
Wait  the  melodious  murmurs  of  a 

harp 
That   wont  to  feed   them  daintily. 

What  drew 
Our  singer  forth,  and  led  the  fairest 

light 
Of  all  our  galaxy  to  swerve  astray 
From  his  fixed  orbit,  and  what  now 

re-spheres. 
After  deflection  long,  our  errant  orb. 
Implies  a  secret  that  the  subtle  power 
Of  Song,  perchance,  may  solve.     Be 

then  your  theme 


As  universal  as  the  heart  of  man. 
Giving  you  scope  to  touch  its  deepest 

depths. 
Its  highest  heights,  and  reverently 

to  explore 
Its  mystery  of  mysteries.     Sing  of 

Love  : 
Tell  us,  ye  noble  poets,  from  what 

source 
Springs  the  prime  passion  ;  to  what 

goal  it  tends  ! 
Sing  it  liow  brave,  how  beautiful, 

how  bright. 
In  essence  how  ethereal,  in  effect 
How  palpable,  how  human  yet  di- 
vine. 
Up  !  up  !  loved  singers,  smite  into 

the  chords, 
The  lists  are  opened,  set  your  lays  in 

rest. 
And  who  of  Love  best  chants  the 

perfect  praise, 
Him  shall  Elizabeth   as  conqueror 

hail 
And  round  his  royal  temples  bind 

the  bays." 

He  said,   and   sat.     And  from  the 

middle-hall 
Four  pages,  bearers  of  the  blazoned 

urn 
That  held  the  name-scrolls  of  the 

listed  bards, 
Moved  to  Elizabeth.     Daintily  her 

hand 
Dipped  in  the  bowl,  and  one  drawn 

scroll  delivered 
Back  to  the  pages,  who,  perusing, 

cried  : 
"Sir  Wolfram  of  the  Willow-brooks 

— begin." 

Up  rose  the  gentle  singer — ^he  whose 

lays, 
Melodious-melancholy,  through  the 

Land 
Live  to  this  day — and,  fair  obeisance 

made. 
Assumed  his  harp  and  stood  in  act 

to  bing. 


OR,  THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


%n 


Awhile,  his  dreamy  fingers  o'er  the 

chords 
Wandered  at  will,  and  to  the  roof 

was  turned 
His  meditative  face  ;  till,  suddenly, 
A  soft  light  from  his  spiritual  eyes 
Broke,  and  his  canticle  he  thus  be- 
gan ;— 

"  Love  among  the  saints  of  God, 
Love  within  the  hearts  of  men, 
Love  in  every  kindly  sod 
That  breeds  a  violet  in  the  glen  ; 
Love  in  heaven,  and  Love  on  earth. 
Love  in  all  the  amorous  air  ; 
Whence    comes   Love  ?    ah  !    tell 

me  where 
Had    such    a    gracious    Presence 

birth  ? 
Lift    thy  thoughts    lo    Him,   all- 
knowing. 
In  the  hallowed  courts  above  ; 
From  His  throne,  forever  flowing, 
Springs  the  fountain  of  all  Love  : 
Down    to    earth    the    stream  de- 
scending 
Meets  the  hills,  and  murmurs  then, 
In  a  myriad  channels  wending. 
Through  the  happy  haunts  of  men. 
Blessed  ye,  earth's  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, 
Love  among  you  flowing  free  ; 
Guard,  oh !  guard  its  sacred  waters. 
Tend  on  them  religiously  : 
Let    them    through    your    hearts 

steal  sweetly. 
With  the  Spirit,  wise  and  bland, 
Minister  unto  them  meetly. 
Touch  them  not  with  carnal  hand. 

"Maiden,  fashioned  so  divinely, 
Whom  I  worship  from  afar. 
Smile  thou  on  my  soul  benignly 
Sweet,  my  solitary  star  : 
Gentle  harbinger  of  gladness, 
Still  be  with  me  on  the  way  ; 
Only  soother  of  my  s^adness, 
Always  near,  though  far  away  : 
Always  near,  since  first  upon  me 
Fell  thy  brightness  from  above. 
And  my  troubled  heart  withia  me 


Felt  the  sudden  flow  of  Love  ; 
At  thy  sight  that  gushing  river 
Paused,  and  fell  to  perfect  rest, 
And  the  pool  of  Love  forever 
Took  thy  image  to  its  breast. 

"Let  me  keep  my  passion  purely 
Guard  its  waters  free  from  blame, 
Hallow  Love,  as  knowing  surely 
It  returneth  whence  it  came  ; 
From  all  channels,  good  or  evil. 
Love,  to  its  pure  source  enticed, 
Finds  its  own  immortal  level 
In  the  charity  of  Christ. 
"  Ye  who  hear,  behold  the  river. 
Whence  it  cometh,  whither  goes  ; 
Glory  be  to  God,  the  Giver, 
From  whose  grace  the  fountain 

flows, 
Flows  and  spreads  through  all  cre- 
ation. 
Counter-charm  of  every  curse, 
Love,  the  waters  of  Salvation, 
Flowing  through  the  universe  ?" 

And  still  the  rapt  bard,  though  hig 

voice  had  ceased. 
And  all  the  Hall  had  murmured  into 

praise. 
Pursued  his  plaintive  theme  among 

the  chords. 
Blending  with  instinct  fine  the  intri- 
cate throng 
Of  thoughts  that  flowed  beneath  his 

touch  to  find 
Harmonious   resolution.     As  he 

closed, 

iaus( 

lay, 
Sent  flying  fingers  o'er  the  strings, 

and  sang  : — 

"  Love  be  my  theme  1    Sing  her 

awake. 
My  harp,    for  she    hath    tamely 

slept 
In  Wolfram's    song,    a    stagnant 

lake 
O'er  which  a  shivoring  star  h.^th, 

crept. 


324 


TANNHaUSER; 


"  Awake,  dull  waters,  from  your 

sleep, 
Rise,    Love,    from    thy    delicious 

well, 
A    fountain  ! —  yea,    but    flowing 

deep 
With  nectar  and  with  hydromel ; 

"With  gurgling  murmurs  sweet, 

that  teach 
My  soul  a  sleep-distracting  dream, 
Till  on  the  marge  I  lie,  and  reach 
My     longing     lips     towards     the 

stream  ; 

"Whose  waves  leap  upwards  to 

the  brink 
With  drowning  kisses  to  invite 
And    drag  me,   willing,  down  to 

drink 
Delirious  draughts  of  rare  Delight ; 

"  Wlio  careless  drink,  as  knowing 

well 
The  happy  pastime  shall  not  tire. 
For  Love  is  inexhaustible, 
And  all-unfailing  my  Desire. 


"Love's  fountain-marge  is  fairly 

spread 
With,   every    incense-flower    that 

blows. 
With  flossy  sedge,  and  moss  that 

grows 
For  fervid  limbs  a  dewy  iDed  ; 

"And   fays   and  fairies   flit   and 

wend 
To  keep  the  sweet  stream  flowing 

free, 
And  on  Love's  languid  votary 
The  little  elves  delighted  tend  ; 

"And  bring  him  honey-dews  to 

sip, 
Eare  balms  to  cool  him  after  play, 
Or  with  sweet  unguents  smooth 

away 
Tlio  kiss-crease  on  his  ruffled  lip  ; 


"And    lilywhite    his  limbs   they 

lave, 
And  roses  in  his  cheeks  renew. 
That  he,  refreshed,  return  to  glue 
His  hps  to  Love's  caressent  wave  ; 


"  And  feel,  in  that  immortal  kiss, 
His  mortal  instincts  die  the  deatb, 
And  human  fancy  fade  beneath 
The  taste  of  unimao;hied  bliss  I 


"  T^us,  gentle  audience,  since  your 

ear 
Best  loves  a  metaphoric  lay, 
Of  mighty  Love  I  warble  here 
In  figures,  such  as  Fancy  may : 

"  Now  know  ye  how  of  Love  I 
think 

As  of  a  fountain,  failing  never. 

On  whose  soft  marge  I  lie,  and 
drink 

Delicious  draughts  of  Joy  for- 
ever." 

Abrupt  he  ceased,  and  sat.     And  for 

a  space. 
No  longer  than  the  subtle  lightning 

rests 
Upon  a  sultry  cloud  at  eventide. 
The  Princess    smiled,   and  on  her 

parted  lips 
Hung  inarticulate  applause  ;  but  she 
Sudden  was  'ware  that  all  the  hall 

was  mute 
With  blank  disapprobation  ;  and  her 

smile 
Died,  and  vague  fear  was  quickened 

in  her  heart 
As  Walter  of  the  Heron-chase  be- 
gan :— 

"  O  fountain  ever  fair  and  bright, 
He  hath  beheld  thee,  source   of 

Love, 
Who    sung  thee    springing  from 

above. 
Celestial  from  the  founts  of  Light; 


OR,  THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


325 


"  But  he  who  from  thy  waters  rare 
Hath  thouc;iit  to  draiu  a  gross  de- 
light. ^ 
BHndin  his  spiritual  sight, 
Hath  ne'er  beheld  thee,  fountain 
fair  ! 

*'  Hath  never  seen  the  silver  glow 
Of    thy    glad    waves,    crystalline 

clear, 
Hath  never  heard  within  his  ear 
The  music  of  thy  murmm-ous  flow. 

"  The  essence  of  all  Good  thou  art, 
Thy  waters  are  immortal  Ruth, 
Thv  murmurs   are  the  voice  of 

'  Truth, 
And  music  in  the  human  heart  : 

*'  Thou  yieldest  Faith  that  soars 

on  high. 
And    Sympathy  that    dwells    on 

earth  ; 
Tlie  tender  trust  in  human  worth. 
The  hope  that  lives  beyond  the 

sky. 

"  Oh  !  waters  of  the  living  Word, 
Oh  !    fair    vouchsafed    us    from 

above. 
Oh  !  fountain  of  immortal  Love, 
What    song  of    thee    erewhile  I 

heard  ! 

'Learn,  sacrilegious  bard,  from 

me 
How  all  ignoble  was  thy  strain, 
That  sought  with  trivial  song  to 

stain 
The  fountain  of  Love's  purity  ; 

"  That  fountain  thou  hast  never 
found. 

And  shouldst  thou  come  with  lips 
of  fire 

To  slake  the  thirst  of  brute  De- 
sire, 

'Twould  shrink  and  shrivel  to  the 
ground  : 

"  Who  seeks  in  Love's  pure  stream 

to  lave 
His  gross  heart,  finds  damnation 

near  ; 


Who  laves  in  Love  his  spirit  clear 
Shall    win    Salvation    from    the 
wave." 

And  now  again,  as  when  the  plain- 
tive lay 

Of  Wolfram  warbled  to  harmonious 
close. 

The  crowd  grew  glad  with  plaudits  ; 
and  again 

Tannhauser,  ruffled,  rose  his  height, 
and  smote 

Rude  in  the  chords  his  prelude  of 
reply  : — 

''What   Love  is  this  that  mejts 

with  Ruth, 
Whose  murmurs  are  the  voice  of 

Truth  ? 
Ye  dazed  singers,  cease  to  dreani; 
And    learn  of    me    your    human 

theme  : 
Of  that  great  Passion  at  whose 

feet 
The  vassal-world  lies  low, 
Of  Love  the    mighty.   Love   the 

sweet. 
I  sing,  who  reigns  below  ; 
Who    makes    men    fierce,    tame, 

wild,  or  kind, 
Sovran  of  every  mood. 
Who  rules  the  heart,  and  rules  the 

mind. 
And  courses  through  the  blood  : 
Slave  of  that  levish  Power  I  sing. 
Dispenser  of  all  good, 
"Whose    pleasure-fountain   is  the 

spring 
Of  sole  beatitude. 

"  Sing  ye  of  Love  ye  ne'er  pos- 
sessed 

In  wretched  tropes — a  vain  em- 
ployment ! 

I  sing  the  passion  in  my  breast. 

And  know  Love  only  in  Enjoy- 
ment." 

To  whom,  while  all  the  rustling  hall 
was  moved 

With  stormy  indignation,  stem  up- 
rose, 


326 


TAMNH^USER; 


Sharp  in  retort,  Sir  Wilfrid  of  the 
Hills  : 

"  Up,  minstrels  !  rally  to  the  cry 

Of  outraged  Love  and  Loyalty  ; 

Drive  on  this  slanderer,  all  the 
throng, 

And  slay  him  in  a  storm  of  song. 

O  lecher  !  shall  I  sing  to  thee 

Of  Love's  untainted  purity, 

Of  simple  Faith,  and  tender  Ruth, 

Of  Chastity  and  loyal  Truth  ? 

As  well  sing  Day's  resplendent 
birth 

To  the  blind  mole  that  delves  the 
earth. 

As  seek  from  gross  hearts,  slough- 
ed in  sin, 

Approval  of  pure  Love  to  win  ! 

Eather  from  thee  I'll  wring  ap- 
plause 

For  Love,  the  Avenger  of  his 
cause  ; 

Great  Love,  the  chivalrous  and 
strong. 

To  whose  wide  grasp  all  arms  be- 
long, 

The  lance,  the  battle-axe,  and 
thong, — 

And  eke  the  mastery  in  song. 

"  Love  in  my  heart  in  all  the  pride 
Of  kinghood  sits,  and  at  his  side. 
To  do  the  bidding  of  his  lord. 
Martial  Valor  holds  the  sword  ; 
He  strikes  for  honor,  in  the  name 
Of  Virtue  and  fair  woman's  fame, 
And  bids  me    shed    my  dearest 

blood 
To  avenge  aspersed  maidenhood  : 
Who  soils  her  with  licentious  lie. 
Him  will  I    hew  both    hip  and 

thigh. 
Or  in  her  cause  will  dearly  die. 
But  thou,  who  in  thy  flashy  song 
Hast    sought    to    do    all    Honor 

wrong, 
Pass  on, — I  will    not    stoop  my 

crest 
To  !5mite  thee,  nor  lay  lance  in 


Thy  brawling  words,  of  riot  born, 
Are  worthy  only  of  my  scorn  ; 
Thus  at  thy  ears  this  song  I  fling, 
Which  in  thy  heart  may  plant  its 

sting, 
If  ruined  Conscience  yet  may  wring 
Hemorse  from  such  a  guilty  thing." 

Scarce  from  his  lips  had  parted  the 

last  word 
When,  through  the  rapturous  praiso 

that  rang  around, 
Fierce  from  his  seat,  uprising,  red 

with  rage, 
With  scornful  lip,  and  contumeIiou3 

eye, 
Tannbauser     clanged     among     the 

chords,  and  sang  : 

"  Floutest   thou    me,   thou  grisly 

Bard  ? 
Beware,  lest  I  the  just  reward 
On  thy  puffed  insolence  bestow, 
And  cleave  thee  with  my  falchion's 

])low, — 
When  I  in  song  have  laid  thee  low. 
I  serve  a  Mistress  mightier  far 
Than   tinkling  rill,   or   twinkling 

star, 
And,  as  in  my  great  Passion's  glow 
Thy  passion-dream  will  melt  like 

snow. 
So  I,  Love's  champion,  at  her  call, 
Will  make  thee  shrink  in  licld  or 

hall. 
And  roll  before  me  like  a  ball. 

"  Thou     pauper-minded     pedant 

dim. 
Thou  starveling-soul,   lean  heart 

and  grim, 
Wouldstthou  of  Love  the  praises 

hymn  ? 
Then  let  the  gaunt  hyena  howl 
In  praise  of  Pity  ;  let  the  owl 
Whoop    the  high  glories    of    the 

noon, 
And  the  hoarso  chough  bccroak  the 

moon! 
Titliat  canst  tnou  prate  of  Love  ?  I 

trow 


ORy  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS, 


327 


She  never  graced  thy  open  brow, 
Nor  iliislied  thy  clieek,  nor  blos- 
somed fair 
Upon  thy  parted  lips  ;  nor  e'er 
Bade  unpent  passion  wildly  start 
Through  the  forced  portals  of  thy 

heart 
To  stream  in  triumph  from  thine 

eye. 
Or  els6  delicious  death  to  die 
On  other  lips,  in  sigh  on  sigh. 

**  Of  Love,  dispenser  of  all  bliss, 
Of  Love,  that  crowns  me  with  a 

kiss, 
I   here    proclaim    me    champion- 
knight  ; 
And  in  her  cause  will  dearly  fight 
With   sword  or  song,  in  hall  or 

plain, 
And  make  the  welkin  ring  again 
With  my  fierce  blows,  or  fervent 

strain. 
But  for  such  Love  as  thou  canst 

feel, 
.   Thou  wisely  hast  abjured  the  steel, 
Averse  to  lay  thy  hand  on  hilt. 
Or  in  her  honor  ride  a  tilt  : 
Tame    Love    full    tamely  may'st 

thou  jilt, 
And  keep  bone  whole,  and  blood 

unspilt." 

Out  flushed  Sir  Wilfrid's  weapon, 

and  out  leapt 
From   every  angry  eye  a  thousand 

darts 
Of  unsheathed  indignation,   and  a 

shout 
Went  up  among  the  rafters,  and  the 

Hall 
Swayed  to  and  fro  with  tumult  ;  till 

the  voice 
Of  our  lie^e  lord  roared  "Peace  !" 

and,  midst  the  clang 
Of  those  who  parted  the  incensed 

bards, 
Soimded     the    harp     of    Wolfram. 

Calm  he  stood. 
He  only  calm  of  all  the  brawling 

crowd; 


Which  yet,  as  is  its  wont,  contagioii 

caught 
From  neighboring  nobleness,  and  a 

stillness  fell 
On  all,  and  in  the  stillness  soft  he 

gang  : 

"O,  from  your  sacred  seats  look 

down, 
Angels  and  ministers  of  good  ; 
With  sanctity  our  spirits  crown. 
And  crush  the  vices  of  the  blood  1 

"Open  our  hearts  and  set  them 

free. 
That  heavenly  light  may  enter  in ; 
And  from  this  fair  society 
Obliterate  the  taint  of  sin. 

"  Thee,  holy  Love,  I  bid  arise 
Propitious  to  my  votive  lay  ; 
Shine    thou    upon  our  darkened 

eyes, 
And  lead  ud  on  the  perfect  way  ; 

"  As,  in  the  likeness  of  a  Star, 
Thou  once  arosest,  guidance  meet, 
And  led' St  the  sages  from  afar 
To  ait  at  holy  Jesu's  teet  : 

"  So  guide  us,  safe  from  Satans 
snares, 

Shine  out,  sweet  Star,  around, 
above. 

Till  we  have  scaled  the  mighty 
stairs, 

And  reached  thy  mansions,  Heav- 
enly Love  ! " 

Then,  while  great  shouts  went  up  of 
"  Give  the  prize 

To  Wolfram,"  leapt  Tannhauser 
from  his  seat. 

Fierce  passion  flaming  from  his  lus- 
trous orbs. 

And,  as  a  sinner,  desperate  to  add 

Depth  to  damnation  by  one  latest 
crime. 

Dies  boastful  of  his  blasphemies- 
even  so, 

Tannhauser,  conscious  of  the  last 
disgrace 


•52^ 


TANNHAUSER; 


Incnrred  by  such  song  in  such  com- 
pany, 

Intent  to  vaunt  the  vastuesb  of  his 
sin, 

Thus,  as  in  ecstasy,  the  song  re- 
newed : 

**  Goddess  of  Beauty,  thee  I  hymn, 
And  ever  worship  at  thy  shrine  ; 
Thou,  who  on  mortal  senses  dim 
Descending,  makest  man  divine. 

"  Who  hath  embraced  thee  on  thy 

throne. 
And  pastured  on  thy  royal  kiss. 
He,    happy,   knows,    and    knows 

alone, 
Love's  full  beatitude  of  bliss. 

"  Grim  bards,  of  Love  who  nothing 
know, 

Now  cease  the  unequal  strife  be- 
tween us  ; 

Dare  as  I  dared  ;  to  Horsel  go. 

And  taste  Love  on  the  lips  of 
Venus." 

Uprose  on  every  side  and  rustled 
down 

The  affrighted  dames  ;  and,  like  the 
shuddering  crowd 

Of  party-colored  leaves  that  flits  be- 
fore 

The  gust  of  mid  October,  all  at  once 

A  hundred  jewelled  shoulders,  hud- 
dling, swept 

The  hall,  and  slanted  to  the  doors, 
and  fled 

Before  the  storm,  which  now  from 
shaggy  brows 

*Gan  dart  indignant  lightnings.  One 
alone 

Of  all  that  awe-struck  womanhood 
remained, 

The  Princess.  She,  a  purple  hare- 
bell frail, 

That,  swathed  with  whirlwind,  to 
the  bleak  rock  clings 

When  half  a  forest  falls  before  the 
blast, 

Rootod  in  utter  wretchedness,  and 
robed  I 


In  mockery  of  splendid  state,  stiD 
sat  ; 

Still  watched  the  waste  that  widened' 
in  her  life  ; 

And  looked  as  one  that  in  a  night- 
mare hangs 

Upon  an  edge  of  horror,  while  from 
beneath 

The  creeping  billow  of  calamity 

Sprays  all  his  hair  with  cold  ;  but 
hand  or  foot 

He  may  not  move,  because  the  form- 
less Fear 

Gapes  vast  behind  him.  Grief  within 
the  void 

Of  her  stark  eyes  stood  tearless  :  ter- 
ror blanched 

Her  countenance  ;  and,  over  cloudy 
brows. 

The  shaken  diamond  made  a  rest- 
less light, 

And  trembled  as  the  trembling  star 
that  hangs 

O'er  Cassiopeia  i'  the  windy  north. 

But  now,  from  farthest  end  to  end 

of  all 
The    sullen    movement    swarming 

underneath, 
UproUed    deep    hollow    groans    of 

growing  wrath. 
And,   w^here    erewhile    in    rainbov7 

crescent  ranged 
The  Lright-eyed  beauties  of  the  court, 

fast  thronged 
Faces  inflamed  with  wrath,  that  rose 

and  fell 
Tumultuously  gathering   from    be- 
tween 
Sharp-slanting  lanes  of  steel.     For 

every  sword 
Flashed  bare  upon  a  sudden  ;  ani 

over  these. 
Through  the  wide  bursten  doors  tho 

sinking  sim 
Streamed    lurid,   lighting    up    that 

steely  sea  ; 
Which,   spotted  white  with  foamy 

plumes,  and  ridged 
With  glittering  iron,  clashed  together 

^and  closed 


(7^.  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  HAKDS. 


3-;- 


About  Tanuhauser.  Careless  of  the 
wrath 

Koused  by  his  own  rash  song,  the 
singer  stood  ;  [fooled 

Hapt  in  remembrance,  or  by  fancy 

>V  visionary  Venus  to  pursue, 

With  eyes  that  roamed  in  rapture 
the  blank  air. 

Until  the  sharp  light  of  a  hundred 
swords 

Smote  on  the  fatal  trance,  and  scat- 
tered all 

Its  fervid  fascination.  Swift  from 
sheath 

Then  leapt  the  glaive  and  glittered 
in  his  hand, 

And  warily,  with  eye  upon  the  watch, 

Receding  to  the  mighty  main  sup- 
port 

That,  from  the  centre,  propped  the 
ponderous  roof. 

There,  based  against  the  pillar,  front- 
ing full 

His  sudden  foes,  he  rested  resolute, 

Awaiting  assault. 

But,  hollow  as  a  bell. 

That  tolls  for  tempest  from  a  storm- 
clad  tower, 

Rang  through  the  jangling  shock  of 
arms  "and  men 

The  loud  voice  of  the  Landgrave. 
Wide  he  swept 

The  solemn  sceptre,  crying  *'  Peace!" 
then  said  : 

"  Ye  Lieges  of  Thuringia !  whose 
just  scorn. 

In  judgment  sitting  on  your  right- 
eous brows, 

Would  seem  to  have  forecast  the 
dubious  doom 

Awaiting  om-  decision ;  ye  have 
heard, 

Not  wrung  by  torture  from  your 
reluctant  lips, 

Nor  yet  breathed  forth  with  peni- 
tential pain 

In  prayer  for  pardon,  nay,  but  rather 
fledged 

And  barbed  with  boasted  insolence, 
such  a  crime 


Confest,  as  turns  to  burning  coals  of 

wrath 
The  dewy  eyes  of  Pity,  nor  ',0  Hope 
One  refuge  spares,  save  such  as  rests 

perchance 
Within  the  bounteous  bosom  of  the 

Church  ; 
Who,  caring  for  the  frailty  of  her 

flock, 
Holds  mercy  measureless  as  heaven 

is  high. 
Shuddering,  ourselves  have  listened 

to  what  breaks 
All  bonds  that  bound   to  this  un- 
happy man 
The  covenanted  courtesies  of  knights, 
The  loyalties  of  lives  by  faith  knit 

fast 
In  spiritual  communion.     "What  bo- 
hooves, 
After  deliberation,  to  award 
In  sentence,  I  to  your  high  council 

leave, 
Undoubting.      What  may  mitigate 

in  aught 
The  weight  of   this    acknowledged 

infamy 
Weigh  with  due  balaiice.     What  to 

justice  stern 
Mild-minded  mercy  yet  may  reconcile 
Search  inly.     Not  with  rashness.  Dot 

in  wrath, 
Invoking  from   the    right  hand  of 

high  God 
His  dread  irrevocable  angel.  Death  ; 
Yet  not  unwary  how  one  spark  of 

hell. 
If  unextinguished,  down  the  night 

of  time 
May,  like  the  wreckers'  beacon  from 

the  reefs. 
Lure    many    to    destruction  :    nor 

indeed 
Unmindful  of  the  doom  by  fire  or 

steel 
This  realm's  supreme  tribunals  have 

reserved 
For  those  that,  dealing  in  damna- 
tion, hold 
Dark  commerce  with  tho  commoQ 

foe  of  man. 


31^0 


TANNIIAUSER 


Weigh  you  in  all  its  circumstance 
this  crime  : 

And,  worthily  judging,  though  your 
judgment  be 

As  sharp  as  conscience,  be  it  as  con- 
science clear." 

He  ended  :  and  a  bitter  interval 
Of  silence  o'er  the  solemn  hall  con- 
gealed, 
Like  frost  on  a  waste   water,  in  a 

place 
Where  rocks  confront  each  other. 

Marshalled  round, 
Black-bearded  cheek  and  chin,  with 

hand  on  heft 
Bent    o'er    the    pommels    of    their 

planted  swords 
A  dreary  cirque  of  faces  ominous, 
The    sullen  barons    on    each  other 

stared 
Significant.     As,  ere  the  storm  de- 
scends 
Upon  a  Druid  grove,  the  great  trees 

stand 
Looking  one  way,  and  stiller  than 

their  wont. 
Until  the  thunder,  rolling,  frees  the 

wind 
That  rocks  them  altogether;  even  so. 
That  savage  circle  of  grim-gnarle'd 

men, 
Awhile   in    silence    storing    stormy 

thoughts. 
Stood   breathless ;    till    a    murmur 

moved  them  all, 
And    louder    growing,   and    louder, 

burst  at  last 
To  a  universal  irrepressible  roar 
Of  voices  roaring,  "  Let  him  die  the 

death  ! " 
And,  in  that  roar  released,  a  hundred 

swords 
Rushed  forward,  and  in  narrowing 

circle  sloped 
Sharp  rims  of  shining  horror  round 

the  doomed, 
Undaunted  minstrel.    Then  a  pite- 
ous cry  ; 
Ai)d  from  the  purple  baldachin  down 

sprang 


The  princess,  gleaming  like  a  ghost, 

and  slid 
Among  the  swords,  and  standing  in 

the  midst 
Swept  a    wild    arm  of    prohibition 

forth. 
Cowering,  recoiled  the  angry,  baftiod 

surge, 
Leaving  on  either  side  a  horrid  hedge     \ 
Of  rifted  glare,  as  when  the  Ked  Sea^^' 

waves  Ij 

Hung  heaped  and  sundered,  ere  they  ^  i 

roaring  fell 
On  Egypt's  chariots.    So  there  came     , 

a  hush  ; 
And  in  the  hush  her  voice,  heavy 

with  scorn  : 

"  Or  shall  I  call  you  men  ?  or  beasts  ? 

who  seem 
No  nobler  than  the  bloodhound  and 

the  wolf 
Which    scorn    to  prey    upon    their 

proper  kind  ! 
Christians  I  will  not  call  you  I  who 

defraud 
That     much-misapprehended    holy 

name 
Of  reverence  due  by  such  a  deed  as, 

done, 
Will  clash  against  the  charities  of 

Christ, 
And  make  a  marred   thing  and   a 

mockery 
Of    the  fair  face  of    Mercy.     You 

dull  hearts, 
And  hard  !  have  ye  no  pity  for  your- 
selves ? 
For  man  no  pity  ?  man  whose  com- 
mon cause 
Is  shamed  and  saddened  by  the  stain 

that  falls 
Upon  a  noble  nature  I    You  blind 

hands. 
Thrust  out  so  fast  to  smite  a  fallen 

friend  ! 
Did  ye  not  all  conspire,  whilst  yet  he 

stood  [forth 

The  stateliest  soul  among  you,  to  set 
[And  fix  him  in  the  foremost  ranks 

of  men? 


OR,   THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


ZZ^ 


Content  that  he,  your  best,  should 
bear  the  brmit, 

And  head  the  van  against  the  scorn- 
ful fiend 

That  will  not  waste  his  weapons  on 
the  herd. 

But  saves  them  for  the  noblest. 
And  shall  Hell 

Triumph  through  you,  that  triumph 
in  the  shame 

Of  this  eclipse  that  blots  your  bright- 
est out, 

And  leaves  you  dark  in  his  extin- 
guished light  ? 

O,  who  that  lives  but  hath  within 
his  heart 

Some  cause  to  dread  the  suddenness 
of  death? 

And  God  is  merciful;  and  suffers  us, 

Even  for  our  sins'  sake  ;  and  doth 
spare  us  time, 

Time  to  grow  ready,  time  to  take 
farewell  ! 

And  send  us  monitors  and  min- 
isters— 

Old  age,  that  steals  the  fullness  from 
"the  veins  ; 

And  griefs,  that  take  the  glory  from 
the  eyes  ; 

And  pains,  that  bring  us  timely  news 
of  death  ; 

And  tears,  that  teach  us  to  be  glad 
of  him. 

For  who  can  take  farewell  of  all  his 
sins 

Of  such  a  sudden  summons  to  the 
grave  ? 

Against  high  Heaven  hath  this  man 
sinned,  or  you  ? 

O,  if  it  be  against  high  Heaven,  to 
Heaven 

Remit  the  compt  !  lest,  from  the 
armory 

Of  the  Eternal  Justice  ye  pluck 
down, 

Heedless,  that  bolt  the  Highest  yet 
withholds 

From  this  low-fallen  head, — how 
fallen  !  how  low  ! 

Yet  not  so  fallen,  not  so  low  fallen, 
but  what 


Divine  Redemption,  reaching  every- 
where. 
May    reach    at    last    even    to    this 

wretchedness, 
And,  out  of  late  repentance,  raise  it 

up 
With  pardon  into  peace." 

She  paused  :  she  touched, 
As     with    an    angel's    finger,    him 

whose  pride 
Obdurate  now  had  yielded,  and  he 

laid 
Vanquished  by  Pity,  broken  at  her 

feet. 
She,  lingering,  waited  answer,  but 

none  came 
Across  the  silence.    And  again  she 

spake  : 

'*  O,  not  for  him  alone,  and  not  for 

that 
Which  to  remember  now  makes  life 

for  me 
A  wilderness  of  homeless  griefs,  I 

plead 
Before    you  ;    but,   O  Princes,   for 

yourselves  ; 
For  all  that  in  your  nobler  nature 

stirs 
To    vindicate    Forgiveness   and  en- 
large 
The  lovely  laws  of  Pity  I    Which  of 

you. 
Here  in  the  witness  of  all-judging 

God, 
Stands  spotless  ?    Which  of  you  will 

boast  himself 
More    miserably    injured    by    this 

man 
Than  I.  whose  heart  of  all  that  lived 

in  it 
He  hath  untenanted  ?     O,  horrible  ! 
Unheard  of  !  from  the  blesse'd  lap  of 

life  [sins, 

To  send  the  soul,  asleep  in  all  her 
Down  to  perdition  !    Be  not  yours 

the  hands 
To  do  this  desperate  wrong  in  sight 

of  all 
The  ruthful  faces  of  the  Saints  in 

Heaven." 


332 


TANNHAUSER  : 


She  passionately  pleading  thus,  her 

voice 
Over  their  hearts  moved  like  that 

earnest  wind 
That,  laboring    long    against    some 

great  nigh  cloud, 
Sets  free,  at  last,  a  solitary  star. 
Then  sinks  ;   but  leaves  the  night 

not  all  forlorn 
Ere  the  soft  rain  o'ercomes  it. 

This  long  while 
Wolfram,  whose  harp  and  voice  were 

overborne 
By  burly  brawlers  in  the  turbulence 
That     shook  that    stormy    senate, 

stood  apart 
With  vainly-vigilant  eye,  and  writhen 

hands. 
All  in  mute  trouble  :  too  gentle  to- 

approve, 
Too  gentle  to  prevent,  what  passed  : 

and  still 
Divided    himself     'twixt     sharpest 

grief 
To  see  his  friend  so   fallen,  and   a 

drear 
Strange  horror  of  the  crime  whereby 

he  fell. 
So,  like  a  headland  light  that  down 

dark  waves 
Shines  o'er  some  sinking  ship  it  fails 

to  save. 
Looked   the  pale  singer  dowTi  the 

lurid  hall. 
But  when  the  pure  voice  of  Eliza- 
beth 
Ceased,   and   clear-lighted  all  with 

noble  thoughts 
Her  face  glowed  as   an  angel's,  the 

Bweet  Bard, 
Whose  generous  heart  had    scaled 

with  that  loved  voice 
Up  to  the    lofty  levels    where    it 

ceased. 
Stood  forth,  and  from  the  dubious 

silence  caught 
And  carried  up  the  purpose  of  her 

prayer  ;  [heart, 

And  drew  it  out,  and  drove  it  to  the 
And  clenched  it  with  conviction  in 

the  mind. 


And  fixed  it  firm  in  judgment. 

From  deep  muse 
The     Landgrave     started,    toward 

Tannhauser  strode, 
And,  standing  o'er  him  with  an  eye 

wherein 
Salt    sorrow    and    a     moody    pity 

gleamed, 
Spake  hoarse  of  utterance  : 

"  Arise  !  go  forth  ! 
Go  from  us,  mantled  in  the  shames 

which  make 
Thee,    stranger    whom    mine    eyo 

henceforth  abhors. 
The  mockery  of  the  man   I  loved, 

and  mourn. 
Go  from  these  halls  yet  holy  with 

the  voice 
Of  her  whose  intercession  for  thy 

sake, — 
If  any  sacred  sorrow  yet  survive 
All  ruined  virtues, — in  remorse  shall 

steep 
The  memory  of  her  wrongs.     For 

thee  remains 
One  hope,  unhappiest  !  reject  it  not. 
There  goeth  a  holy  pilgrimage   to 

Rome, 
Which  not  yet  from  the  borders   of 

our  land 
Is  parted;'  pious  souls  and  meek, 

whom  thou 
Haply  may' St  join,  and  of  those  holy 

hands, 
Which  sole  have  power  to  bind  or 

loose,  receive 
Remission    of  thy    sin.      For    save 

alone 
The  hand    of  Christ's    high  Vicar 

upon  earth 
A  hurt  so  henious  what  may  heal  ? 

What  save 
A  soul  so  fallen  ?    Go  forth  upon 

thy  ways. 
Which  are  not  ours  :  for  we  no  more 

may  mix 
Congenial  minds  in  converse  sweet, 

no  more  .        [hear 

Together  pace  these  halls,  nor  ever 
Thy  harp  as  once  when  all  was  pure 

and  glad, 


OR,  THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


333 


Among  the  days  which  have  been. 

All  thy  paths 
Henceforth  be  paths  of  penitence 

and  prayer, 
WTiiist  over  ours  thy  memory  mov- 
ing makes 
A  sliadow,  and  a  silence  in  our  talk. 
Get  thee  from  hence,  O  all  that  now 

remains 
Of  one  we  honored  !    Till  the  hand 

that  holds 
The  keys  of  heaven  hath  oped  for 

thee  the  doors 
Of  life  in  that  far  distance,  let  mine 

eye 
See  thee  no  more.     Go  from  us  ! " 

Even  then, 

Even  whilst  he  spake,  like  some 
sweet  miracle, 

From  darkening  lands  that  glim- 
mered through  the  doors 

Came,  faintly  heard  along  the  filmy 
air 

That  bore  it  floating  near,  a  choral 
chant 

Of  pilgrims  pacing  by  the  castle 
wall  ; 

And  "  salvum  mefac  Doinine^'  they 
sung 

Sonorous,  in  the  ghostly  going  out 

Of  the  red-litten  eve  along  the  land. 

Then,  like  a  hand  across  the  heart 

of  him 
That  heard  it  moved  that  music  from 

afar, 
And  beckoned  forth  the  better  hope 

which  leads 
A  man's  life  up  along  the  rugged 

road 
Of  high  resolve.     Tannhauser  mov- 
ed, as  moves 
The  folded  serpent  smitten  by  the 

spring 
And  stirred  with  sudden  sunlight, 

when  he  casts 
His    spotted    skin,   and,  renovated, 

gleams 
With   novel  hues.      One    lingering 

long  look, 


Wild  with  remorse  and  vague  with 

vast  regrets, 
He  lifted  to  Elizabeth.    His  thoughts 
Were  then  as  those  dumb  creatures 

in  their  pain 
That  makes  a  language  of  a  look. 

He  tossed 
Aloft  his   arms,   and   down  to  the 

great  doors 
With  drooped  brows  striding,  groaned 

"  To  Rome,  to  Home  !  " 
Whilst  the    deep  hall  behind  him 

caught  the  cry 
And  drove  it  clamorous   after  him, 

from  ail 
Its     hollow      roofs      reverberating 

"  Rome  !" 

A  fleeting  darkness  through  the 
lurid  arch  ; 

A  flying  form  along  the  glare  be- 
yond ; 

And  he  was  gone.  The  scowling 
Eve  reached  out 

Across  the  hills  a  fiery  arm,  and 
took 

Tannhauser  to  her,  like  a  sudden 
death. 

So  ended  that  gi'eat  battle  of  the 

Bards, 
Whereof  some  rumor  to  the  end  of 

time 
Will  echo  in  this  land. 

And,  voided  now 
Of  all  his  multitudes,   the  mighty 

Hall, 
Dumb,  dismally  dispageanted,   laid 

bare 
His  ghostly  galleries  to  the  mournful 

moon  ; 
And  Night  came  down,  and  Silence, 

and  the  twain 
Mingled     beneath      the     starlight. 

Wheeled  at  will 
The  flitter-winged  bat  round  lonely 

towers 
Where,  one  by  one,  from  darkening 

casements  died 
The  taper's  shine  ;  the  howlet  fiom 

the  hills 


334 


TANNHAUSER ; 


Wliooped  ;     and    Elizabeth,     alone 

with  Night 
And  Silence,  and  the  Ghost  of  her 

slain  youth, 
Lay  lost  among  the  ruins  of  that 

day. 

As  when  the  buffeting  gusts,    that 

adverse  blow 
Over  the  Caribbean  Sea,  conspire 
Conflicting    breaths,   and,  savagely 

begot, 
The  fierce  tornado  rotatory  wheels, 
Or  sweeps  centripetal,  or,  all  forces 

joined, 
Whirls  circling  o'er  the  maddened 

waves,  and  they 
Lift  up  their  foaming  backs  beneath 

the  keel 
Of  some  frail  vessel,  and,  careering 

high 
Over  a  sunken  rock,  with  a  sudden 

plunge 
Confound      her,  —  stunned      and 

strained,  upon  the  peak 
Poising  one  moment,  ere   she    for- 
ward fall 
To  float,  disLelmed,  a  wreck  upon 

the  waves  : 
So  rose,  engendered  by  what  furious 

blasts 
Of  passion,  that  fell  hurricane  that 

swept 
Elizabeth  to  her  doom,  and  left  her 

now 
A  helmless  hull  upon  the   savage 

seas 
Of  life,  without  an  aim,  to  float  for- 
lorn. 

Longwhile,  still  shuddering  from  the 

shock  that  jarred 
The    bases    of    her    being,    piteous 

wreck 
Of  ruined  hopes,  upon  her  couch  she 

lay, 
Of  life  and  time  oblivious  ;  all  her 

mind, 
Locked  in  a  rigid  agony  of  grief, 
Clasping,  convulsed,  its  unwept  woe ; 

her  heart 


Writhing  and  •  riven  ;  and  her  bur- 

thened  brain 
Blind  with  the  weight  of  tears  that 

would  not  flow. 
But  when,  at  last,  the  healing  hand 

of  Time 
Had  wrought  repair  upon  her  shat^ 

tered  frame  ; 
And  those  unskilled  physicians  of 

the  mind — 
Importunate,  fond  friends,  a  host  of 

kin — 
Drew  her  perforce  from  solitude,  she 


Back  to  the  world,  and  walked  its 

weary  ways 
With  dull  mechanic  motions,  such  as 

make 
A  mockery  of  life.     Tot  gave  she 

never, 
By  weeping  or  by  wailing,  outward 

sign 
Of  that  great  inward  agony  that  she 

bore  ; 
For    she  was    not  of  those  whose 

sternest  sorrow 
Outpours  in  plaints,  or  weeps  itself 

in  dew  ; 
Not  passionate  she,  nor  of  the  happy 

souls 
Whose  grief  comes  tempered  with 

the  gift  of  tears. 

So,  through  long  weeks  and  many  a 

weary  moon. 
Silent  and  self-involved,  without  a 

sigh, 
She  suffered.     There,  whence  con-' 

solation  comes, 
She  sought  it — at  the  foot  of  Jesu's 

cross, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  Virgin- 
spouse, 
And  in  communion  with  the  blesse'd 

Saints. 
But  chief  for  him  she  prayed  whose 

grievous  sin 
Had  wrought  her  desolation  ;  God 

besought 
To  touch  the  leprous  soul  and  make 

it  clean ; 


0]R.  THE  BA  TIL  E  OF  THE  BARDS. 


335 


^  lid  sued  tlic  Heavenly  Pastor  to  re- 
call 
Tfie  lost  sheep,  slandering  from  the 

pleasant  ways, 
Back  to  thb  pasture  of  the  paths  of 

peace. 
So  thrice  a  day,  what  time  the  blush- 
ing morn 
Ci  husoned  tlie  orient  sky,  and  when 

the  Sim 
Glared  from  mid-heaven  or  weltered 

in  the  west, 
Fervent  she  prayed  ;  nor  in  the  night 

forewent 
Her  vigils  ;  till  at  last  from  prayer 

she  drew 
A  calm  into  her  soul,  and  in  that 

calm 
Heard  a  low  whisper — like  the  breeze 

that  breaks 
The  deep  peace  of  the  forest  ere  the 

chirp 
Of  earliest  bird  salutes  the  advent 

Day- 
Thrill  through  her,   herald  of  the 

dawn  of  Hope. 

Then  most  she  loved  from  forth  her 

leafy  tower 
Listless    to    watch    the  irrevocable 

clouds 
R'lll  on,  and  daylight  waste  itself 

away 
Along  those  dreaming  woods,  whence 

evermore 
She  mused,  '*  He  will  return  ;"  and 

fondly  wove 
Her  webs  of  wistful  fantasy  till  the 

moon 
Was  high  in  heaven,  and  in  its  light 

she  kneeled, 
A  faded  watcher  through  the  weary 

night, 
A  meek,  sweet  statue  at  the  silver 

shrines. 
In  deep,  perpetual  prayer  for  him 

she  loved. 
And  from  the  pitying  Sisterhood  of 

Saints 
Haply  that  prayer  shall  win  an  angel 

down 


To  be  his  unseen  minister,  and  draw 
A  drowning    conscience    from    the 
deeps  of  Hell. 

Time  put  his  sickle  in  among  the 

days. 
Blithe    Summer     came,    and    into 

dimples  danced 
The  fair  and  fructifying  Earth,  anon 
Showering  the  gathered  guerdon  of 

her  play 
Into  the  lap  of  Autumn  ;  Autman 

stored 
The  gift,  piled  ready  to  the  palsied 

hand 
Of  blind  and  begging  Winter  ;  and 

when  he 
Closed  his   well-provendered   days^ 

Spring  lighdy  came 
And  scattered  sweets  upon  his  sul- 
len grave. 
And  twice  the  seasons  passed,  the 

sisters  three 
Doing  glad  service  for  their  hoary 

brother. 
And  twice  twelve  moons  had  waxed 

and  waned,  and  twice 
The    weary    world    had    pilgrimed 

round  the  sun. 
When  from  the  outskirts  of  the  land 

tliere  came 
Rumor  of  footsore  penitents  from 

Rome 
Returning,  jubilant  of  remitted  sin. 

So  chanced  it,  on  a  silent  April  eve 
The  westering  sun  along  the  Wart- 
burg  vale 
Shot  level    beams,   and  into    glory 

touched 
The  image  of  Madonna, — where  it 

stands 
Hard  by  the  common  way  that  climbs 

the  steep, — 
The  image  of  Madonna,  and  the  face 
Of  meek  Elizabeth  turned  towards 

the  Queen 
Of    Sorrows,   sorrowful    in    patient 

prayer  ; 
When,  through  the  silence  and  the 

sleepy  leaves, 


336 


TANNHAUSER; 


A.  breeze  blew  up  the  vale,  and  on 

the  breeze 
Floated  a  plaintive  music.     She  that 

heard, 
Trembled  ;    the    prayer    upon    her 

parted  lips 
Suspended  hung,  and  one  swift  hand 

she  pressed 
Against  the  palpitating  heart  whose 

throbs 
Confused  the  cunning  of  her  ears. 

Ah  God  ! 
Was  this  the  voice  of  her  returning 

joy? 
The  psalm  of  shriven  pilgrims  to 

their  homes 
Returning  ?    Ay  !  it  swells  upon  the 

breeze 
The  ^^  Nunc  Bimittis  "  of  glad  souls 

that  sue 
After  salvation  seen  to  part  in  peace. 
Then  up  she  sprung,  and  to  a  neigh- 
boring copse 
Swift  as  a  startled  hind,  when  the 

ghostly  moon 
Draws    sudden    o'er    the    silvered 

heather-bells 
The  monstrous  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

she  sped  ; 
Pausing,     low-crouched,    within    a 

maze  of  shrubs, 
"VVliose  emerald  slivers  fringed  the 

rugged  way 
So  broad,  the  pilgrim's  garments  as 

they  passed 
Would  brush  the  leaves  that  hid  her. 

And  anon 
They  came  in  double  rank,  and  two 

by  two, 
With  cumbered  steps,  with  haggard 

gait  that  told 
Of  bodily  toil  and  trouble,  with  be- 

soiled 
And    tattered    garments  ;    nathless 

with  glad  eyes, 
Whence  looked  the  soul  disburthened 

of  her  sin. 
Climbing  the  rude  path,  two  by  two 

they  came. 
And  she,  that  watched  with  what  in- 
tensest  gazo 


Them  coming,  saw  old  faces  that  she 

knew, 
And    every  face   turned  skywards, 

while  the  lips 
Poured  out  the  heavenly  psalm,  and 

every  soul 
Sitting  seraphic  in  the  upturned  eyes 
With  holy  fervor  rapt  upon  the  song. 
And  still  they  came  and  passed,  and 

still  she  gazed  ; 
And  still  she  thought,  "  Now  comes 

he  !  "  and  the  chant 
Went  heavenwards,  and  the  filed  pil- 
grims fared 
Beside  her,  till  their  tale  wellnigh 

was  told. 
Then  o'er  her  soul  a  shuddering  hor- 
ror crept, 
And,  in  that  agony  of  mind  that 

makes 
Doubt  more  intolerable  than  despair, 
With  sudden  hand  she  brushed  aside 

the  sprays, 
And  from  the  thicket  leaned  and 

looked.     The  last  [ken 

Of  all  the  pilgrims  stood  within  the 
Of    her    keen  gaze, — save    him  all 

scanned,  and  he 
No  sooner  scanned  than  cancelled 

from  her  eyes 
By  vivid  lids  swept  down  to  lash 

away 
Him  hateful,  being  other  than  she 

sought. 
So  for  a  space,  blind  with  dismay, 

she  paused, 
But,    he    approaching,    from     the 

thicket  leapt, 
Clutched  with  wrung  hands  his  robe, 

and  gasped,  "  The  Knight 
That  with  you  went,  returns  not  ?" 

In  his  psalm 
The  fervid  pilgrim  made  no  pause, 

yet  gazed 
At  his  wild  questioner,  intelligent 
Of  her  demand,  and  shook  his  head 

and  passed. 
Then  she,  with  that  mute  answer 

stabbed  to  the  heart, 
Sprung  forward,  clutched  him  yet 

once  more,  and  cried. 


on,  THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  BA 


TKV. 


')V^%¥^. 


"lu  Mary's  name,  and  in  the  name 

of  God, 
Received  the    knight    his    shrift?" 

And,  once  again, 
The  pilgrim,    sorrowful,   shook  his 

head  and  sighed. 
Sighed  in  the  singing  of  his  psalm, 

and  passed. 

Then  prone  she  fell  upon  her  face, 

and  prone 
Within  her  mind  Hope's  shattered 

fabric  fell, — 
The  dear  and  delicate  fabric  of  frail 

Hope 
Wrought  by  the  simple  cmining  of 

her  thoughts, 
That,  laboring  long,  through  many 

a  dreamy  day 
And  many  a  vigil  of  the  wakeful 

night. 
Piecemeal  had  reared  it,  patiently, 

with  pain, 
From  out  the  ruins  of   her  ancient 

peace. 
O  ancient  Peace  !  that  never  shalt 

return  ; 
O    ruined  hope !    O    Fancy  I    over- 
fond, 
Futile  artilicer  that  build' st  on  air. 
Marred  is  thy  handiwork,  and  thou 

shalt  please 
With  plastic  fantasies  her  soul  no 

more. 

So  lay  she  cold  against  the  callous 

ground, 
Her  pale  face  pillowed  on  a  stone, 

her  eyes 
^'.'ide  open,  fixed  into  a  ghastly  stare 
That  knew  no  speculation  ;  for  her 

mind 
Was   dark,    and   all  her  faculty  of 

thought 
Compassionately  cancelled.    But  she 

lay 
Not  in  the  embrace  of  loyal  Death, 

who  keeps 
His  bride  forever,  but  in  treacherous 

arms 
Of  Sleep  that,  sated,  will  restore  to 

Grief 


Her,  snatched  a  sweet  space  from 

his  cruel  clutch, 
So  lay  she  cold  against  the  callous 

groimd, 
And  none  was  near  to  heed  her  as 

the  sun, 
About  him  drawing  the  vast-skirted 

clouds. 
Went  down  behind  the  western  hill 

to  die. 

Now    Wolfram,    when    the    rumor 

reached  his  ears 
That,   from  their    quest  of    saving 

grace  returned, 
The  pilgrims  all  within  the  castle- 
court 
Were    gathered,    flocked    about  by 

happy  friends, 
Passed  from  his  portal  swiftly,  and 

ran  out 
And  joined  the    clustering    crowd. 

Full  many  a  face, 
Wasted  and  wan,  he  recognized,  and 

elapsed 
Full  many  a  lean  hand  clutching  at 

his  own, 
Of  those  who,  stretched  upon  the 

grass,  or  propped 
Against    the    bowlder-stones,    were 

pressed  about 
By  weeping  women,   clamorous  to 

unbind 
Their  sandal-thongs  and  bathe  the 

bruise'd  feet. 
Then    up    and    down,   and    swiftly 

through  and  through. 
And     round     about,     skirting     the 

crowd,  he  hurried. 
With  greetings  fair  lo  all ;  till,  filled 

with  fear, 
Half-hopeless  of  his  quest,  yet  har- 
boring hope, 
He    paused    perplexed    besides  the 

castle  gates. 
There,  at  his  side,  the  youngest  of 

the  train, 
A  blue-eyed  pilgrim  tarried,  and  to 

him 
Turned    Wolfram    questioning     of 

Tannhiiuser's  fate, 


33^ 


TANNHAUSER: 


And  learnt  in  few  words  how,  his 

sin  pronounced 
Deadly  and  irremediable,  the  knight 
Had   faded  from  before  the   awful 

face 
Of    Christ's    incensed    Vicar ;    and 

none  knew 
Whither    he     wandered,    to    what 

desolate  lands, 
Biding  his  anguish  from  the  eyes  of 

men. 
Then  Wolfram  groaned,  and  elapsed 

his  hands,  and  cried, 
*'  Merciful  God  1"  and  fell  upon  his 

knees 
In  purpose  as  of  prayer, — but,  sud- 
denly. 
About  the  gate  the  crowd  moved, 

and  a  cry 
Went  up  for  space,  when,  rising,  he 

beheld 
Four  maids  who  on  a  pallet  bore  the 

form 
Of    wan   Elizabeth.      The    whisper 

grew 
That  she  had  met  the  pilgrims,  and 

had  learned 
Tannhauser  s  fate,  and  fallen  beside 

the  way. 
And  Wolfram,  in  the  ghastly  torch- 
light, saw 
The    white    face    of    the    Princess 

tunned  to  his, 
A  nd    for  a  space    their  eyes    met ; 

then  she  raised 
One    hand    towards    Heaven,    and 

smiled  as  who  should  say, 
"  O  friend,   I  journey  unto    God  ; 

farewell  !" 
Iju^,  he  could  answer  nothing  ;  for 

his  eyes 
Were   blinded    by   his    tears,    and 

through  his  tears 
Dimly,  as  in  a  dream,  he  saw  her 

borne 
Up    the    broad    granite    steps   that 

wind  within 
The  palace  ;  and  his  inner  eye,  en- 
tranced, 
Saw  in  a  vision  four  great  Angels 

stand, 


Expectant  of  her  spirit,  at  the  foot 
Of  flights  of  blinding  brilhaucy  of 

stairs 
Innumerable,  that  through  the  riven 

skies 
Scaled  to  the  City  of  the  Saints  of 

God. 
Then,  when  thick  night  fell  on  his 

soul,  and  all 
The  vision  fled,  he  solitaiy  stood 
A  crazed    man    within    the    castle- 
court  ; 
Whence  issuing,  with  wild  eyes  and 

wandering  gaiu 
He  through  the  darkness,  groaning, 

passed  away. 

All  that  lone  night,  along  the 
haunted  hills, 

By  dizzy  brinks  of  mountain  pre- 
cipices. 

He  fleeted,  aimless  as  an  unused 
wind 

That  wastes  itself  about  a  wilder- 
ness. 

Sometimes  from  low~browed  caves, 
and  hollow  crofts, 

Under  the  hanging  woods  there 
came  and  went 

A  voice  of  wail  upon  the  midnight 
air. 

As  of  a  lost  soul  mourning  ;  and 
the  voice 

Was  still  the  voice  of  his  remem- 
bered friend. 

Sometimes  (so  fancy  mocked  the 
fears  she  bred  !) 

He  heard  along  the  lone  and  eery 
land 

Low  demon  laughters  ;  and  a  sullen 
strain 

Of  horror  swelled  upon  the  breeze  ; 
and  sounds 

Of  wizard  dance,  with  shawm  and 
timbrel,  flew 

Ever  betwixt  waste  air  and  waiider- 
ing  cloud 

O'er  pathless  peaks.  Then,  in  the 
distance  tolled. 

Or  seemed  to  toll,  a  knell :  tho 
breezes  dropped  : 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


339 


And,    in    the    sudden    pause,    that 

passmg  bell 
With    ghostfy  summons    bade  him 

back  return 
To  where,  till  dawn,  a  shade  among 

the  shades 
Of    Wartburg,    watching    one    lone 

tower,  he  saw 
A   light  that   waned    with    all    his 

earthly  hopes. 
The  calm  Dawn  came  and  from  the 

eastern  cliff. 
Athwart  the  glistening  slopes  and 

cold  green  copse, 
Called  to  him,  careless   of   a  grief 

not  hers  ; 
But  he,  from  all  her  babbling  birds, 

and  all 
Her  vexing  sunlight,  with  a  weary 

heai't 
Drew  close  the  darkness  of  the  glens 

and  glades 
About  him,  flying  through  the  forest 

deeps. 
And  day  and  night,   dim  eve  and 

dewy  dawn. 
Three    times    returning,   went    un- 

cared  for  by  ; 
And  thrice  the  double  twilights  rose 

and  fell 
About  a  land  where  nothing  seemed 

the  same. 
At  eve  or  dawn,  as  in  the  time  gone 

by. 
But,   when    the  fourth  day  like  a 

stranger  slipped 
To    his    unhonored    grave,     God's 

Angel  passed 
Across  the  threshold  of  the  Land- 
grave's hall. 
And  in  his   bosom  bore  to  endless 

peace 
The  weary  spirit  of  Elizabeth. 
Then,  in  that  hour  when  Death  with 

gentle  hand 
Had  drooped  the  quiet  eyelids  o'er 

the  eyes 
That  Wolfram  loved,  to  Wolfram's 

heart  there  came 
A  calmness  like  the  calmness  of  a 

gra.ve 


Walled  safe  from  all  the  noisy  walks 
of  men 

In  some  green  place  of  peace  where 
daisies  grow. 

His  tears  fell  in  the  twilight  with  tht 
dews, 

Soft  as  the  dews  that  with  the  twi- 
light fell, 

When,  over  scarred  and  weather- 
wounded  walls, 

Sharp-jagge'd  mountain  cones,  and 
tangled  quicks. 

Eve's  spirit,  setthng,  laid  the  land 
to  sleep 

In  slvyey  trance.  Nor  yet  less  soft 
to  fuse 

Memory  with  hope,  and  earth  with 
heaven,  to  him. 

Athwart  the  harsher  anguish  of  that 
day. 

There  stole  with  tears  the  tender  hu- 
man sense 

Of  heavenly  mercy.  Through  that 
milder  mood, 

Like  waifs  that  float  to  shore  when 
storms  are  spent, 

Flowed  to  his  heart  old  memories  of 
his  friend, 

O'erwoven  with  the  weed  of  other 
griefs. 

Of  other  griefs  for  her  that  grieved 
no  more — 

And  of  that  time  when,  like  a  blaz- 
ing star 

That  moves  and  mounts  between  the 
Lyre  and  Crown, 

Tannhauser  shone  ;  ere  sin  came, 
and  with  sin 

Sorrow.  And  now  if  yet  Tannhau- 
ser lived 

None  knew  :  and  if  he  lived,  what 
hope  in  life  ? 

And  if  he  lived  no  more,  what  rest 
in  death  ? 

But  every  way  the  dreadful  doom  of 
sin. 

Thus,  musing  much  on  all  the  mys- 
tery 

Of  life,  and  death,  and  love  that  will 
not  die,  [way  ; 

He  wandered  torth,  incurious  of  the 


340 


TANNHAUSER 


Which  took  the  wont  of  other  days, 

and  woimd 
Along  the  valley.     Now  the  nodding 

star 
Of  even,   and  the   deep,  the  dewy 

hour 
Held  all  the  sleeping  circle  of  the 

hills  ; 
Kor  any  cloud  the  stainless  heavens 

obscured, 
Save  where,   o'er  Horsel  folded  in 

the  frown 
Of  all  his  wicked  woods,  a   fleecy 

fringe 
Of  vapor  veiled  the  slowly  sinking 

moon. 
There,  in  the  shade,  the  stillness, 

o'er  his  harp 
Leaning,  of  love,  and  life,  and  death 

he  sang 
A  song  to  which  from  all  her  aery 

caves 
The    mountain  echo  murmured  in 

her  sleep. 
But,  as  the  last  strain  of  his  solemn 

song 
Died  oft"  among  the  solitary  stars, 
There    came  in   answer    from    the 

folded  hills 
A  note  of  human  woe.     He  turned, 

he  looked 
That  way  the  sound  came  o'er  the 

lonely  air  ; 
And,  seeing,  yet  believed  not  that 

he  saw. 
But,   nearer    moving,    saw    indeed 

hard  by, 
Dark  in  the  darkness  of  a  neighbor- 
ing hill. 
Lying  among  the  splintered  stones 

and  stubs 
Flat  in  the  fern,  with  limbs  diffused 

as  one 
That,  having  fallen,  cares  to  rise  no 

more, 
A  pilgrim  ;  all  his  weeds  of  pilgrim- 
age 
Hanging  and  torn,  his  sandals 

stained  with  blood 
Of  bruised  feet,  and,  broken  in  his 

hand, 


His  wreathe'd  staff. 

And  Wolfram  wistfully 
Looked  in  his  face,  and  knew  it  not. 

''Alas  ! 
Not  him,"  he  murmured,  *'not  my 

friend  !"     And  then, 
"What  art  thou,  pilgrim?   whence 

thy  way  ?  how  fall'n 
In  this  wild  glen  ?  at  this  lone  hour 

abroad 
When  only  Grief  is  stirring  ?  "  Unto 

whom 
That  other,  where  he  lay  in  the  long 

grass. 
Not  rising,  but  with  petulant  ges- 

tm-e,  "Hence  ! " 
Whate'er  I  am,  it  skills  not.    Thee  1 

know 
Full  well.  Sir  Wolfram  of  the  Wil- 

lowbrook. 
The  well-beloved  Singer  ! " 

Like  a  dart 
From    a  friend's  hand    that  voice 

through  Wolfram  went : 
For  Memory  over  all  the   ravaged 

form 
Wherefrom   it    issued,    wandering, 

failed  to  find 
The  man  she  mourned  ;    but  Wol- 
fram, to  the  voice 
No  stranger,  started  smit  with  pain, 

as  all 
The  past  on  those  sharp  tones  came 

back  to  break 
His  heart  v/ith  hopeless  knowledge. 

And  he  cried, 
"  Alas,     my    brother  I "       Such    a 

change,  so  drear. 
In  all  so  unlike  all  that  once  he  was 
Showed  the  lost  knight  Tannhauser, 

where  he  lay 
Fallen  across  the  split  and  morselled 

crags 
Like  a  dismantled  ruin.     And  Wol- 
fram said, 
"O  lost!   how  comest  thou,  unab- 
solved, once  more 
Among    these    valleys    visited    by 

death, 
And  shadowed  with  the  shadow  ol 

thy  sin  ?  " 


0/^r   THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


341 


Wbereto  in  scorn  Tannhauser,  "  Be 

at  rest, 
O  fearful  in  thy  righteousness  !  not 

thee. 
Nor  grace  of  thine,  I  seek," 

Speaking,  he  rose 
The  spectre  of  a  beauty  waned  away; 
And,  like  a  hollow  echo  of  himself 
Mocking  his  own  last  words,  he  mur- 
mured, "  tSeek  ! 
Alas  !    what   seek  I  here,   or  any- 
where ? 
Whose  way  of  life  is  like  the  crum- 
bled stair 
That    winds    and    winds    about    a 

ruined  tower, 
And  leads  nowhither  ! " 

But  Wolfram  cried,  "Yet  turn  ! 
For,  as  I  live,  I  will  not  leave  thee 

thus. 
My  life  shall  be  about  thee,  and  my 

voice 
Lure  scared  Hope  back  to  find  a 

resting-place 
Even  in  the  jaws  of  Death.     I  do 

adjure  Ihee, 
By  all  that  friendship  yet  may  claim, 

declare 
That,  even  though  unabsolved,  not 

uncontrite, 
Thy  soul  no  more  hath  lapsed  into 

the  snare 
Of  that  disastrous  sorcery.     Bid  me 

hail. 
Seen  through  the  darkness  of  thy 

desolation, 
Some  light  of  purer  purpose  ;  since 

I  deem 
Rot  void  of  purpose  has  thou  sought 

these  paths 
That  range  among  the  places  of  the 

past  ; 
And  I  will  make  defeat  of  Grief 

with  such  [arm 

True  fellowship  of  tears  as  shall  dis- 
Ser  right  hand  of  its  scorpions  ;  nor 

in  vain 
My  prayers  with  thine  shall  batter  at 

the  gates 
Of  Mercy,  through  all  antagonisms 

of  fate 


Forcing  sharp  inlet  to  her  throne  in 
Heaven." 

Whereat  Tannhauser,  turning  tear- 
less eyes 

On  Wolfram,  murmm-ed  mournful- 
ly, "If  tears 

Fiery  as  those  from  fallen  seraphs 
distilled, 

Or  centuries  of  prayers  for  pardon 
sighed 

Sad,  as  of  souls  in  purgatorial 
glooms. 

Might  soften  condemnation,  or  re- 
store 

To  her,  whom  most  on  earth  I  have 
offended. 

The  holy  freight  of  all  her  innocent 
hopes 

Wrecked  in  this  ruined  venture,  I 
would  weep 

Salt  oceans  from  these  eyes.  But  I 
no  more 

May  drain  the  deluge  from  my  heart, 
no  more 

On  anv  breath  of  sigh  or  prayer  re- 
build 

The  rainbow  of  discovenanted  Hope. 

Thou,  therefore,  Wolfram — for  her 
face,  when  mine 

Is  dark  forever,  thine  eyes  may  still 
behold — 

Tell  her,  if  thou  unblamed  may'st 
speak  of  one 

Signed  cross  by  the  cm*se  of  God  and 
cancelled  out. 

How,  at  the  last,  though  in  remorse 
of  all 

That  makes  allegiance  void  and 
valueless. 

To  me  has  come,  with  knowledge  of 
my  loss. 

Fealty  to  that  pure  passion,  once  be- 
trayed. 

Wherewith  I  loved,  and  love  her." 

There  his  voice. 
Even  as  a  wave  that,  touching  on 

the  shore 
To    which  it  travelled,  is  shivered 

and  difEustid, 


3^^ 


TANNHAUSRi 


Sank,  scattered  into  spray  of  waste- 
ful sighs, 

And  back  dissolved  into  the  deeper 
grief. 

To  whom,  Wolfram,  "  O  answer  by 

the  faith 
In  which  mankind  are  kindred,  art 

thou  not 
From  Rome,  unhappiest  ?"    "  From 

Rome?  ah  me  !" 
He  muttered,  "  Rome  is  far  off,  very 

far. 
And  weary  is  the  way  ! "     But  un- 
deterred 
Wolfram  renewed,  *' And  hast  thou 

not  beheld 
The  face  of  Christ's  High  Vicar  ?" 

And  again, 
*'  Pass  on,"  he  muttered,  *'  what  is 

that  to  thee  ?  " 
Whereto,    with      sorrowful     voice. 

Wolfram,  "Oall, 
And  all  iu  all  to  me  that  love  my 

friend  !  " 
"  My  friend  ! "   Tannhauser  laughed 

a  bitter  laugh 
Then    sadlier    said,    "What    thou 

wouldst  know,  once  known, 
Will  cause  thee  to  recall  that  wasted 

word 
And  cancel  all  the  kindness  in  thy 

thoughts  ; 
Yet  shalt  thou  learn  my  misery,  and 

learn 
The  man  so  changed,  whom  once 

thou  calledst '  friend,' 
That  unto  him  the  memory  of  him- 
self 
Is  as  a  stanger."     Then,  with  eyes 

that  swam 
True  sorrow,  Wolfram  stretched  his 

arms  and  sought 
To    clasp  Tannhauser  to  him  :  but 

the  other 
Waved  him  away  and  with  a  shout 

that  sprang 
Fierce  with  self-scorn  from  misery's 

deepest  depth, 
"  Avaunt  !."    he  cried,  the  ground 

whereon  I  tread 


Is  ground  accurst  ! 

''  Yet  stand  not  so  far  off 
But  what  thine  ears,  if  yet  they  will, 

may  take 
The  tale   tliy  lips  from  mine  have 

sought  to  learn  ; 
Then,  sign  thyself,  and  peaceful  go 

thy  ways." 
And  Wolfram,  for    the    grief  that 

choked  his  voice. 
Could  only  murmur  "Speak  !"  But 

for  a  while 
Tannhauser  to  sad  silence  gave  his 

heart  ; 
Then  fetched  back  some  far  thought, 

sighing,  and  said  : — 

"  O  Wolfram,  by  the  love  of  lovlier 

days 
Believe  I  am  not  so  far  fallen  away 
From  all  I  was  while  we  might  yet 

be  friends. 
But  what  these    words,   haply  my 

last,  are  true  : 
True  as  my  heart's  deep  woe  what 

time  I  felt 
Cold  on  my  brow  tears  wept,  and 

wept  in  vain, 
For  me.  among  the  scorn  of  altered 

friends. 
Parting  that   day  for  Rome.      Re- 
member this  : 
That  when,  in  after  years  to   which 

I  pass 
A  by- word,  and  a  mockery,  and  no 

more. 
Thou,    honored    still  by  honorable 

men, 
Shalt  hear    my  naine    dishonored, 

thou  may' St  say, 
'  Greatly  he  grieved  for  that  great 

sin  he  sinned.' 

"  Ever,  as  up  the  windy  Alpine  way, 

We  halting  oft  by  cloudy  convent 
doors, 

My  fellow-pilgrims  warmed  lb  em- 
selves  within, 

And  ate  and  drank,  and  slept  their 
sleep,  all  night, 


OR,  THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


343 


f,  lasting,  slept  not  ;  but  in  ice   and 
snow 

Wept,    aye    remembering    her  that 
wept  for  me, 

Ajid   loathed   the     sin   within     me. 
When  at  length 

Our  way  lay  under  garden  terraces 

Strewn  with  their  dropping  blossoms, 
thick  with  scents, 

Among    the  tovN'ers    and  towns  of 
Italy, 

Whose  sumptuous  airs   along  them, 
Uke  the  ghosts 

Of  their  old  gods,  vrent  sighing,  I 
nor  looked 

Kor  lingered,  but  with  bandaged  eye- 
balls prest, 

Impatient,  to  the  city  of  the  shrine 

Of  my  desired  salvation.     There  by 
'  night 

We  entt-red.     There,  all   night,  for- 
lorn I  lay 

Bruised,    broken,  bleeding,  all    my 
garments  torn. 

And  atl  my   spirit  stricken  witli  re- 
morse, 

Prostrate  beneath  the  great  cathedral 
stairs. 

So  the  dawn  found  me.      From  a 
hundred  spires 

A  hundred  silvery  chimes  rang  joy  : 
but  I 

Lay  folded  in  the  shadow    of    my 
shame, 

Darkening  the  daylight  from  me    in 
the  dust. 

Then  came  a  sound  of  solemn  music 
flowing 

To  wliere  I   crouched  ;  voices   and 
trampling  feet  ; 

And,   girt   by   all  his    crimson   car- 
dinals. 

In  all  his  pomp  the  sovran   Pontiff 
stood 

Before    me    in  the    centre    of  my 

hopes  ; 
Wliich    trembled    round  him   into 

glorious  shapes. 
Golden,  as  clouds  that  ring  the  risen 
sun.  [fell 

And  all  the  people,  all  the  pilgrims, 


Low  at  his   sacrod  feet,   confessed 

their  sins. 
And,  pardoned,  rose  with  psalms  of 

jubilee 
And  confident  glad  faces. 

Then  I  sprang 
To  where  he  paused  above  me  ;  with 

wild  hands 
Clutched  at  the   skirts   I   could  not 

reach  ;  and  sank 
Shiveringly  back  ;    crying,  '  O  hoiy, 

and  liigh, 
And  terrible,  that  hast  the  keys  of 

heaven  ! 
Thou  that  dost  bind  and  dost  iin- 

loose,  from  me. 
For  Mary's    sake,   and    the    sweet 

saints',  unbind 
The  grievous  burthen  of  the  curse  I 

bear.' 
And  when  he  questioned,  and  I  told 

him  all 
The  sin  that  smouldered  in  my  blood, 

how  bred, 
And  all  the  strangeness  of  it,  then 

his  face 
Was  as  the  Judgment  Angel's  ;  and 

I  hid 
My  own  ;  and,  hidden  from  his  eyes, 

I  heard  : 

" '  Hast  thou  within  the    nets    ol 

Satan  lain  ? 
Hast  thou  thy  soul  to  her  perdition 

pledged  ? 
Hast    thou    thy    lip    to   Hell's  En- 

chatress  lent. 
To  drain   damnatirm  from  her  reek- 
ing cup  ? 
Then  know  tliat  sooner  from  the 

withered  staff 
That  in  my  hand  I  hold  green  leaves 

shall  spring, 
Than  from  the    brand  in    hell-fire 

scorched  rebloom 
The  blossoms  of  salvation.' 

The  voice  ceased, 
And,   with  it  all  things    from  my 

sense.     I  waked 
I  know  not  when,  but  ail  the  place 

was  dark  : 


7. '.4 


''ANN HA  USER 


Above  me,  and  about  me,  and  with- 
in 

Darkness  :  and  from  that  liour  by 
moon  or  sun 

Darkness  unutterable  as  of  death 

Where'er  I  walk.  But  death  him- 
self is  near  ! 

O,  might  I  once  more  see  her,  un- 
seen ;  unheard, 

Hear  her  once  more  ;  or  know  that 
she  forgives 

Whom  Heaven  forgives  not,  nor  his 
own  lost  peace  ; 

I  think  that  even  among  the  nether 
fires 

And  those  dark  fields  of  Doom  to 
which  I  pass, 

Some  blessing  yet  would  haunt  me." 
Sorrowfully 

He  rose  among  the  tumbled  rocks 
and  leaned 

Against  the  dark.  As  one  that  many 
a  year, 

Sundered  by  savage  seas  unsociable 

From  kin  and  country,  in  a  desert 
isle 

Dwelling  till  half  dishumanized,  be- 
holds 

Haply,  one  eve,  a  far-off  sail  go  by. 

That  brings  old  thoughts  of  home 
across  his  heart  ; 

And  still  the  man  who  thinks  — 
"  They  are  all  gone. 

Or  changed,  that  loved  me  once,  and 
I  myself 

No  more  the  same  " — watches  the 
dwindling  speck 

With  weary  eyes,  nor  shouts,  nor 
waves  a  hand  ; 

But  after,  when  the  night  is  left 
alone, 

A  sadness  falls  upon  him,  and  he 
feels 

More  solitary  in  his  solitudes 

And  tears  come  starting  fast  ;  so, 
tearful,  stood 

Tannhauser,  whilst  his  melancholy 
thoughts,  [hope. 

From  following  up  far  off  a  waning 

Back  to  himself  came,  one  by  one, 
more  sad 


I  Because  of  sadness  troubled. 

!  Yet  not  long 

I  lie    rested    thus  ;    but  murmured, 

"  Now,  farewell : 
1  go  to  hide  me  darkly  in  the  groves 
That  she  was  wont  to  haunt  ;  where 

some  sweet  chance 
Haply  may  yield  me  sight  of  her, 

and  I 
May  stoop,  she  passed  away,  to  kiss 

the  ground 
Made  sacred  by  her  passage  ere  I 

die." 
But  him  departing  Wolfram  held, 

"Vain  !  vain  I 
Thy  footstep  sways  with  fever,  and 

thy  mind 
Wavers    within  thy   restless    eyes. 

Lie  here, 
O   unrejected,    in    my    arms,    and 

rest  I " 

Now  o'er  the  cumbrous  hills  began 

to  creep 
A  thin  and  watery  light  :  a  whisper 

went 
Yague  through  the  vast  and  dusky- 

volumed  woods. 
And,  unaccompanied,  from  a  drowsy 

copse 
Hard  by  a  solitary  chirp  came  cold. 
While,  spent  with  inmost  trouble, 

Tannhauser  leaned 
His  wan  cheek  pillowed  upon  Wol- 

ram's  breast. 
Calm,  as  in  death,  ^dth  placid  lids 

down  locked. 
And    Wolfram    prayed    within   hia 

heart,  "  Ah,  God  ! 
Let  him  not  die,  not  yet,  not  thus 

with  all 
The    sin    upon    his   spirit ! "     But 

while  he  prayed 
Tannhauser  raised  delirious  looks, 

and  sighed, 
"  Hearest  thou  not  the  happy  songs 

they  sing  me  ? 
Seest  thou  not  the  lovely  floating 

forms? 
O  fair,   and  fairer  far  tlian  fancy 

fashioned  1 


07^,   THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


345 


0  Bweet  the  sweetness  of  the  songs 

they  sing  I 
For  thee,  .  .  .    they    sing  .  .  .    the 

goddess  waits :  for  thee 
With    braided    blooms    the    balmy 

couch  is  strewn, 
And  loosed  for  thee  .  .  .  they  sing 

.  .  .  the  golden  zone. 
Fragrant  for  thee  the  lighted  spices 

fume 
With  streaming  incense  sweet,  and 

sweet  for  thee 
The  scattered  rose,  the  myrtle^crown, 

the  cup, 
The  nectar-cup  for  thee  /  .  .  .  they 

sing.     Return, 
Though  late,  too  long  desired,  .  .  . 

I  hear  them  sing, 
Delay  no  more  delights  too  long  de- 
layed : 
Turn  to  thy  rest :  .  .  .  they  sing  .  .  . 

the  marritd  doves 
Murmur ;    the  Fays    soft-sparkling 

tapers  tend  ; 
The  odors  burn  the  purple  bowers 

among  ; 
And    love  for    thee,   and  Beauty, 

waits!  .  .  ,  they  sing." 

"Ah  me  !  ah  madman  !"  Wolfram 

cried,  ''yet  cram 
Thy  cheated  ears,   nor   chase  with 

credulous  heart 
The  fair  dissembUng  of  that  dream. 

For  thee 
Not    roses    now,   but    thorns  ;    nor 

myrtle  wreath. 
But  cypress  rather  and  the  graveyard 

flower 
Befitting  saddest  brows  ;  nor  nectar 

poured, 
But  prayers  and  tears  !    For  thee  in 

yonder  skies 
An  Angel  strives  with  Sin  and  Death ! 

for  thee 
Yet  pleads  a  spirit  purer  than  thine 

own  : 
For  she  is  scone  !  gone  to  the  breast 

of  God  ! 
Thy    Guardian    Angel,    while    she 

v/alked  tho  earth. 


Thine  intercessionary  Saint  while 
now 

For  thee  she  sues  about  the  Throne 
of  Thrones, 

Beyond  the  stars,  our  star,  Eliza- 
beth !" 

Then  Wolfram    felt  the"  shattered 

frame  that  leaned 
Across  his  breast  with  sudden  spasms 

convulsed. 
"Dead  1  is  she  dead  ?"  Tannhauser 

murmured,  "dead! 
Gone  to  the  grave,  so  young  I  mur- 
dered— by  me  ! 
Dead — and  by  my  great  sin !  O  Wol- 
fram, turn 
Thy  face  from  mine.     I  am  a  dying 

man  ! " 
And  Wolfram  answered,    "Dying? 

ah,  not  thus  ! 
Yet  make  one  sign  thou  dost  repent 

^    the  past. 
One  word,  but  one  !  to  say  thou  hast 

abhorred 
That  false  she-devil  that,  with  her 

damned  charms, 
Hath    wrought    this    ruin  ;   and    I, 

though  all  the  world 
Roar  out  against  thee,  ay  I  though 

fiends  of  hell 
Howl  from  the    deeps,   yet   I,  thy 

fi'iend,  even  yet 
Will  cry  them  *  Peace  ! '  and  trust 

the  hope  I  hold 
Against  all  desperate  odds,  and  deem 

thee  saved." 
Whereto      Tannhauser,       speaking 

faintly,  "Friend, 
The    fiend    that    haunts    in    ruins 

through  my  heart 
Will  wander  sometimes.     In  the  nets 

I  trip. 
When  most  I  fret  the  meshes.    Thes*} 

spent  shafts 
Are  of  a  sickly  brain  that  shoots 

awry, 
Aiming  at  something  better.     Bear 

with  me. 
I  die  :  I  ^ass  I  know  not  whither : 

vet  know 


346 


TANITHAUSER 


That  I  die  penitent.     O  Wolfram, 

pray, 
Pray  for  my  soul  I    I  cannot  pray 

myself. 
I  dare  not  hope  :  and  yet  I  would 

not  die 
Without  a  hope,  if  any  hope,  though 

faint 
And  far  beyond  this  darkness,  yet 

may  dwell 
In  the  dear  death  of  Him  that  died 

foralL" 
He    whispering    thus  ;    far    in    the 

Aurorean  East 
The    ruddy    smi,  uprising,  sharply 

smote 
A  golden  finger  on  the  airy  harps 
By  Morning  hung  within  her  leafy 

bowers  ; 
And  all  about  the  budded  dells,  and 

woods 
With  sparkling- tasselled  tops,  from 

birds  and  brooks 
A  hundred  hallelujahs  hailed   the 

light. 
The  whitehorn  glistened  from  the 

wakening  glen  : 
O'er  golden  gravel  danced  the  dawn- 
ing rills  : 
All  the  delighted  leaves  by  copse  and 

glade 
Gambolled  ;    and    breezy   bleatings 

came  from  flocks  [dew. 

Far  off  in  pleasant  pastures  fed  with 

But  whilst,  unconscious  of  the  silent 

change 
Thus    stolen  around  him,  o'er  the 

dying  bard 
Hung  Wolfram,  on  the  breeze  there 

came  a  sound 
Of  mourning  moving  down  the  nar- 
row glen  ; 
And,  looking  up,  he  suddenly  was 

'ware 
Of  four  white  maidens,  moving  in 

the  van 
Of  four  black  monks  who  bore  upon 

her  bier 
The  flower-strewn  corpse  of  young 

Elizabeth. 


And  after  these,  from  all  the  castled 
hills, 

A  multitude  of  lieges  and  lords  ; 

A  multitude  of  men-at-arms,  with 
all 

Their  morions  hung  with  mourning; 
and  in  midst 

His  worn  cheek  channelled  with  un- 
wonted tears, 

The  Landgrave,  weeping  for  Eliza- 
beth. 

These,  as  the  sad  procession  nearer 
wound. 

And  nearer,  trampling  bare  the 
feathery  weed 

To  where  Sir  Wolfram  rested  o'er 
his  friend, 

Tannhauser  caught  upon  his  dying 
gaze  ; 

And  caught,  perchance,  upon  the  in- 
ward eye. 

Far,  far  beyond  the  corpse,  the  bier, 
and  far 

Beyond  the  widening  circle  of  the 
sun. 

Some  sequel  of  that  vision  Wolfram 
saw  : 

The  crowned  Spirit  by  the  Jaspar 
Gates  ; 

The  four  white  Angels  o'er  the  walls 
of  Heaven, 

The  shores  where,  tideless,  sleep  the 
seas  of  Time 

Soft  by  the  City  of  the  Saints  of  God. 

Forth,  with  the  strength  that  lastly 

comes  to  break 
All  bonds,  from  Wolfram's  folding 

arm  he  leapt, 
Clambered    the    pebbly  path,   and, 

groaning,  fell  [last  ! 

Flat  on  the  bier  of  love — his  bourn  at 
Then,    even    then,   while    question 

question  chased 
About  the  ruffled  circle  of  that  grief, 
And  all  was  hubbub  by  the  bier,  a 

noise 
Of  shouts  and  hymns  brake  in  across 

the  hills. 
That  now  o'erflowed  with  hurrying 

feet  ;  and  came, 


0K\  TIIK  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


347 


Dashed  to  the  hip  with  travel,  and 

dewed  with  haste, 
A  flying  post,  and  iu  his  hand  he 

bore 
A  withered  staff  o'erflourished  with 

green  leaves  ; 
Who, — followed  by  a  crowd  of  youth 

and  eld. 
That  sang  to  stun  with  sound  the 

lark  in  heaven, 
'*  A  miracle  !  a  miracle  from  Rome  ! 
Glory  to  God  that  makes  the  bare 

bough  green  !  " — 
Sprang  in  tlie  midst,  and,  hot  for 

answer,  asked 
News  of  the  Knight  Tannhauser. 

Tlien  a  monk 
Of  those  that,  stoled  in  sable,  bore 

the  bier 
Pointing,  with  sorrowful  hand,  "  Be- 
hold the  man  ! " 
But  sfraioht  the  other,  "  Glory  be  to 

God  ! 
This  from  the  Vicar  of  the  fold  of 

Christ  : 
The  withered   staff  hath  flourished 

into  leaves. 
The    brand    shall    bloom,    though 

burned  with  fire,  and  thou 
—Thy  soul  from  sin  be  saved  I "    To 

whom,  with  tears 
That    flashed    from    lowering    lids. 

Wolfram  replied  : 
*'  To  him  a  swifter  message,  from  a 

source 
Mightier  than  whence  thou  comest, 

hath  been  vouchsafed. 
See  these  dark  hands,  blind  eyes,  and 

bloodless  lips. 
This   shattered  remnant  of  a  once 

fair  form, 
Late  home  of  desolation,  now  the 

husk 
And  ruined  chrysalis  of  a  regal  spirit 
That  up  to  heaven  hath  parted  on 

the  wing  ! 
But  thou,  to  Rome  returning  with 

hot  speed,  [Christ 

Tell  the  high  Vicar  of  the  Fold  of 
How  that  lost  sheep  his    rescuing 

hand  would  reach, 


Although  by  thee  imfound,  is  found 

indeed. 
And  in  the  Shepherd's  bosom  lies  a^. 

peace." 

And  they  that  heard  him  lifted  up 

the  voice 
And    wept.     But    they    that    stood 

about  the  hills 
Far  oft',  not  knowing,  ceased  not  to 

cry  out, 
"Glory  to  God  that  makes  the  hare 

bough  green  ! ' ' 
Till  Echo,  from  the  inmost  heart  of 

all 
That  mellowing  morn  blown  open 

like  a  rose 
To  round  and  ripen  to  the  perfect 

noon. 
Resounded,   "Glory!    glory!"   and 

the  rocks 
From  glen  to  glen  rang,  ^'  Glory  unto 

God  ! " 

And  so  those  twain,  severed  by  Life 

and  Sin, 
By  Love  and  Death  united,  in  one 

grave 
Slept.     But  Sir  Wolfram  passed  into 

the  wilds  : 
There,  with  long  labor  of  his  hands, 

he  hewed 
A  hermitage  from   out  the  hollow 

rock, 
Wherein  he  dwelt,  a  solitary  man. 
There,  many  a  year,  at  nightfall  or 

at  dawn. 
The  pilgrim  paused,  nor  ever  paused 

in  vain, 
For  words  of  cheer  along  his  weary 

way. 
But  once,  upon  a  windy  night,  men 

heard 
A  noise  of  rustling  wings,  and  at  the 

dawn 
They  found  the  hermit  parted  to  hia 

peace. 
The  place  is  yet.     The  youngest  pil- 
grim knows, 
And  loves  it.     Three  gray  rocks  ; 

and,  over  these, 


348 


CL  YTEMNES  TRA . 


A  mountain    ash    that,   mourning, 

bead  by  bead, 
Drops  her  red  rosary  on  a  ruined  cell. 

So  sang  the  Saxon  Bard.     And  when 
he  ceased, 


The  women's  cheeks  were  wet  with 
tears  ;  but  all 

The  broad-blown  Barons  roared  ap- 
plause, and  flowed 

The  jostling  tankards  prodigal  of 
wine. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA. 


Agamemnon. 

^GISTHUS. 

Orestes. 
Phocian. 
Herald. 


clytemnestra. 
Electra. 
Cassandra. 
Chorus. 


Scene. — Before  the  Palace  of  Agamemnon  in  Argos. 

which  the  shield  of  Agamemnon,  on  the  wall. 
Time. — Morning.     The  action  continues  till  Sunset. 


Trophies,  amongst 


I.     CLYTEMNESTRA. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Morning  at  last  !  at  last  the-  linger- 
ing day 
Creeps   o'er  the  dewy  side  of  yon 

dark  world. 
O  dawning  light  already  on  the  hills ! 
O  universal  earth,  and  air,  and  thou. 
First  freshness  of  the  east,  which  art 

a  breath 
Breathed  from  the  rapture  of  the 

gods,  who  bless 
Almost  all  other  prayers  on  earth 

but  mine  ! 
Wherefore  to  me  is  solacing  sleep 

denied  ? 
And  honorable  rest,  the  right  of  all  ? 
So  that  no  medicine  of  the  slumbrous 

shell. 
Brimmed  with  divinest  draughts  of 

melody, 


Nor  silence  under  dreamful  canopy, 
Nor  purple    cushions   of    the   lofty 

couch 
May  lull  this  fever  for  a  little  while. 
Wherefore    to    me, — to    me,   of  all 

mankind, 
This  retribution  for  a  deed  undone  ? 
For  many  men  outlive  their  sum  oi 

crimes, 
And  eat,  and  drink,  and  lift  up  thank- 
ful hands, 
And  take  their  rest  securely  in  the 

dark. 
Am  I  not  innocent, — or  more  than 

these  ? 
There  is  no  blot  of  murder  on  my 

brow, 
Nor  any  taint  of  blood  upon  my  robe. 
— It  is  the  thought !  it  is  the  thought ! 

.  .  .  and  men 
Judge   us   by  acts  !  ...  as  though 

one  thunder-clap 


CL  YTEMXESTRA. 


349 


Let  all  Olympus  out.    Unquiet  heart, 
111  fares  ft  with  thee  since,  ten  sad 

years  past, 
In  one   wild  hour  of  unacquainted 

joy, 
Thou  didst  set  wide  thy  lonely  bridal 

doors 
For  a  forbidden  guest  to  enter  in  I 
Last  night,  inethought  pale  Helen, 

with  a  frown, 
Swept  by  nie,  murmuring,  *'  I — such 

as  thou — 
A  Queen  in  Greece — weak-hearted, 

(woe  is  me  !) 
Allured  by  love — did,  in  an  evil  hour, 
Fall  oft"  from  duty.     Sorrow  came. 

Beware  !" 
And  then,  in  sleep,  there  passed  a 

baleful  band, 
The  ghosts  of  all  the  slaughtered 

imder  Troy, 
From  this    side    Styx,   w^ho    cried, 

"  For  such  a  crime 
We  fell  from  our  fair  palaces  on 

earth. 
And    w'ander,   starless,   here.      For 

such  a  crime 
A  thousand  ships    were  launched, 

and  tumbled  down 
The  topless  towers  of  Ilion,  though 

they  rose 
To  magic    music,   in   the    time    of 

Gods!" 
With  such  fierce  thoughts  forever- 
more  at  war, 
Vext  not  alone  by  hankering  wild 

regrets, 
But  fears,  yet  worse,  of  that  which 

soon  must  come. 
My  heart  waits  armed,  and  from  the 

citadel 
Of  its  high  sorrow,  sees  far  off  dark 

shapes, 
And  hears  the  footsteps  of  ISTecessity 
Tread    near,    and    nearer,   hand  in 

hand  with  Woe. 
Last  night  the  flaming  Herald  warn- 
ing urged 
[Jp    all    the    hills, — small    time    to 

pause  and  plan  !  [to  do. 

Counsel  is  weak  :  and  much  remains 


That  Agamemnon,  and,  if  else  re- 
main 

Of  that  enduring  band  who  sailed 
for  Troy 

Ten  years  agcr  (and  some  sailed 
Letheward), 

Find  us  not  unprepared  for  their 
return. 

But — hark  !  I  hear  the  tread  of  n'lii^- 

ble  feet 
That  sounds  this  way.     The  rising 

town  is  poured 
About  the  festive  altars  of  the  Gods, 
And  from  the  heart  of    the   great 

Agora, 
Lets  out  its   gladness  for  this   last 

night's  news. 
— Ah,  so  it  is  !    Insidious,  sly  Re- 
port, 
Sounding      oblique,      like     Loxian 

oracles, 
Tells  double-tongued  (and  with  the 

selfsame  voice  !) 
To  sonic  new  gladness,  new  despair 

to  some. 


II. 


CHORUS    AND    CLYTEM- 
XESTRA. 


O  dearest  Lady,  daughter  of  Tyn- 

darus  ! 
With  purple  flowers  we  come,  and 

offerings — 
Oil,  and  wine  ;  and  cakes  of  honey, 
Soothing,  unadulterate  ;  tapestries 
Woven  by  white  Argive  maidens, 
God-descended  (woven  only 
For  the  homeward  feet  of  Heroes} 
To  celebrate  this  glad  intelligence 
Which  last  night  the  fiery  courier 
Brought  us,  posting  up  from  Ilion, 
Wheeled  above  the  dusky  circle 
Of  the  hills  from  lighted  Ida. 
For  now  (Troy  lying  extinguisht 
Underneath  a  mighty  Woe) 
Our  King  and  chief  of  men, 
AgamenmoTi,  returning 
(And  with  hnn  the  liope  of  Argos; 


3y 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


Shall  worship  at  the  Tutelary  Altars 
Of  their  dear  native  land  : 
In  the  fane  of  ancient  Here, 
Or  the  great  Lyca3an  God  ; 
Immortally  crowned  with  reverend 

honor  ! 
But  tell    us    wherefore,   O  godlike 

woman, 
Having  a  lofty  trouhle  in  your  eye, 
"^u     walk    alone     with    loosened 

tresses  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Shall  the  ship  toss,  and  yet  the  helm 

not  heave  ? 
Shall  they    drowse    sitting    at    the 

lov/er  oars, 
When  those  that  hold   the  middle 

benches  wake  ? 
He  that  is  yet  sole  eye  of   all  our 

state 
Shining  not  here,  shall  ours  be  shut 

in  dreams  ? 
But  haply  you  (thrice  happy  !)  prove 

not  this. 
The  curse    of    Queens,    and  worse 

than  widowed  wives — 
To  wake,  and  hear,  all  night,  the 

wandering  gnat 
Sing  through  the  silent  chambers, 

while  Alarm, 
In  place  of  Slumber,  by  the  haunted 

couch 
Stands    sentinel  ;    or    when    from 

coast  to  coast 
Wails  the  night-wandering  wind,  or 

when  o'er  heaven 
Bootes    hath    unleashed    his    fiery 

hounds. 
And  Night  her  glittering  camps  hath 

set,  and  lit 
Her  watch-fires  through  the  silence 

of  the  skies, 
— To  count  ill  chances  in  the  dark, 

and  feel 
Deserted  pillows  wet  with  tears,  not 

kisses, 
Where  kisses  once  fell. 

But  now  Expectation 
Stirs  up  such  restless  motions  of  the 

blood 


As    suffer    not    my  lids  to  harbor 

sleep. 
Wherefore,  O  beloved  companion??;, 
I  wake  betimes,  and  wander  up  and 

down. 
Looking    toward    the    distant    hill- 

tO])S. 

From  whence  shall  issue  fair  fulfil- 
ment 

Of  all  our  ten-years'  hoping.  For, 
behold  ! 

Troy  being  captived,  we  shall  see 
once  more 

Those  whom  we  loved  in  days  of 
old. 

Yet  some  will  come  not  from  the 
Phrygian  shore, 

But  there  lie  weltering  to  the  surf 
and  ^ind  ; 

Exiled  from  day,  in  darkness  blind, 

Or  having  crost  unhappy  Styx. 

And  some  who  left  us  full  of  vigor- 
ous youth 

Shall  greet  us  now  gray-headed 
men. 

But  if  our  eyes  behold  again 

Our  long-expected  chief,  in  truth, 

Fortune  for  us  hath  thrown  the 
Treble  Six. 


By  us,  indeed,  these  thiv,.,^  are  also 

wisht. 
Wherefore,  if  now  to  this  great  son 

of  Atreus 
(Having  survived  the  woeful  walls 

of  Troy), 
With  us,  once  more,  the  Gods  permit 

to  stand 
A  glad  man  by  the  pillars  of  liis 

hearth, 
Let  his  dear  life  henceforth  be  such 

wherein 
The  Third  Libation  often  shall  be 

poured. 

CLYTEMNESTRA, 

And  let  his  place  be  numbered  with 
the  Gods,  [walls, 

Who   overlook  the   world's   eternal 
Out  of  all  reach  of  sad  calamities. 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


35' 


CHOKUS. 

It  is  not  well,   I  think,  that  men 

should  set 
Too  near  the  Gods  any  of  mortal 

kind  : 
But  brave  men  are  as  Gods  upon  the 

earth. 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

And  whom  Death  daunts  not,  these 
are  truly  brave. 

CHOEUS. 

But  more  than  all  I  reckon  that  man 

blest, 
Who,  having  sought  Death   nobly, 

finds  it  not. 

CLYTEMMESTRA. 

Except  he  find  it  where  he  does  not 
seek. 

CHORUS. 

You  speak  in  riddles. 

CLYTEMXESTRA, 

For  so  Wisdom  speaks. 
But    now    do    you    with    garlands 

wreathe  the  altars, 
While  I,  within,  the  House  prepare. 
That  so  our  King,  at  his  returning, 
With  his  golden  armament, 
Find  us  not  unaware 
Of  the  greatness  of  the  event. 

CHORUS. 

Soon  shall  we  see  the  faces  that  we 

loved. 
Brother  once  more  clasping  brother, 
As  in  the  unforgotten  days  : 
And  heroes,  meeting  one  another, 
(Men  by  glorious  toils  approved) 
Where  once  they  roved. 
Shall  rove  again    the  old   familiar 

ways. 
And   they  that  from   the    distance 

come 
Shall  feed  their  hearts  with  tales  of 

home ; 


And  tell  the  famous  story  of  the 
war. 

Rumored  sometime  from  afar. 

Now  shall  these  again  behold 

The  ancient  Argos  ;  and  the  grove 

Long  since  trod 

By  the  frenzied  child  of  Inachus  ; 

And  the  Forum,  famed  of  old. 

Of  the  wolf-destroying  God  ; 

And  the  opulent  Mycenee, 

Home  of  the  Pelopidce, 

While  they  rove  with  those  they 
love, 

Holding  pleasant  talk  with  us. 

O  how  gloriously  they  went. 

That  avenging  armament  ! 

As  though  Olympus  in  her  womb 

No  longer  did  entomb 

The  greatness  of  a  bygone  world- 
Gods  and  godlike  men — 

But  east  them  forth  again 

To  frighten  Troy  :  such  storm  was 
hurled 

On  her  devoted  towers 

By  the  retributive  Deity, 

Whosoe'er  he  be 

Of  the  Immortal  Powers — 

Or  maddening  Pan,  if  he  chastise 

His  Shepherd's  Phrygian  treach- 
eries ; 

Or  vengeful  Loxias  ;  or  Zeus, 

Angered  for  the  shame  and  abuse 

Of  a  great  man's  hospitality. 

As  wide  as  is  Olympus'  span 
Is  the  power  of  the  high  Gods  ; 
Who,  in  their  golden  blest  abodes 
See  all  things,  looking  from  the  sky; 
And  Heaven  is  hard  to  pacify 
For  the  wickedness  of  man. 
My  heart  is  filled  with  vague  fore- 
bodings, 
And  opprest  by  unknown  terrors 
Lest,  in  the  light  of  so  much  glad- 
ness. 
Rise  the  shadow  of  ancient  wrong. 
A  Diemon  of  tlie  double  lineage 
Of  Tantalus  ;  and  the  Pleisthenidas, 
Inexorable  in  thy  mood, 
On  the  venerable  threshold 
Of  the  ancient  House  of  Pelopa 


352 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


Surely  is  enough  of  blood  ! 
Wherefore  does  my  heart    misgive 
me  ?  [me  ? 

Wherefore  comes  this  doubt  to  grieve 
O,  may  no  Divine  Envy 
Follow  home  the  Argive  army, 
Being  vexed  for  things  ill-done 
In  wilful  pride  of  stubborn  war. 
Long  since,  in  the  distant  lands  ! 
May  no  Immortal  wrath  pursue 
Our  dear  King,  the  Light  of  Argos, 
For  the  unhappy  sacrifice 
Of  a  daughter  ;  working  evil 
In  the  dark  heart  of  a  woman  ; 
Or  some  household  treachery, 
And  a  curse  from  kindred  hands  ! 


III.  CLYTEMNESTRA. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

iBe-entering  from  the  house. 

To-morrow  .  .  .  ay,  what  if  to-day  ? 

.  .  .     Well— then  ? 
Why,  if  those  tongues  of  flame,  with 

which  last  night 
The  land  was  eloquent,  spoke  cer- 
tain truth. 
By    this    perchance   through  green 

Saronic  rocks 
Those  black  ships  glide   .  .  .  per- 
chance .  .  .    well,   what's  to 

fear? 
'Twere  well  to  dare  the  worst — to 

know  the  end — 
Die  soon,   or  live  secure.     What's 

left  to  add 
To  years  of  nights  like  those  which 

I  have  known  ? 
Shall  I  shrink  now  to  meet  one  little 

hour 
Which  I  have  dared  to  contemplate 

for  years  ? 
By  all  the  Gods,  not  so  !     The  end 

crowns  all. 
Which  if  we  fail  to  seize,  that's  also 

lost 
Which  went  before  :  as  who  would 

lead  a  host 
Through  desolate    dry   places,  yet 

return 


In  sight  of  kingdoms,  when  the  Gods 

are  roused 
To  mark  the  issue  ?  .  .  .  And  yet, 

yet— 

I  think 
Three  nights  ago  there  must  have 

been  sea-storms. 
The  wind  was  wild  among  the  Pal-  ] 

ace  towers  : 
Far  off  upon  the  hideous  Element 
I  know  it  huddled  up  the  petulent 

waves. 
Whose    shapeless    and    bewildering 

precipices 
Led  to  the  belly  of  Orcus  ...  O,  to 

slip 
Into  dark  Lethe  from  a  dizzy  plank,  i 
When  even  the  Gods  are  reeling  on 

the  poop  ! 
To  drown  at  night,  and  have  no  sep- 
ulchre ! — 
That  were  too  horrible  !  .  .  .  yet  it 

may  be 
Some  easy  chance,  that  comes  with 

little  pain, 
Might  rid   me   of  the  haunting  of 

those  eyes, 
And  these  wild   thoughts   ...    To 

know  he  roved  among 
His  old  companions  in  the  Happy 

Fields, 
And  ranged  with  heroes— I  still  in- 
nocent ! 
Sleep  would  be  natural  then. 

Yet  will  the  old  time 
Never  return  !  never  those  peaceful 

hours  ! 
Never  that  careless  heart  !  and  never 

more. 
Ah,  nevermore  that  laughter  with- 
out pain  ! 
But  I,  that  languish  for  repose,  must 

fly  it. 
Nor,  save  in  daring,  doing,  taste  of 

rest. 
O,  to  have  lost  all  these  !    To  have 

bartered  calm, 
And   all   the  irrevocable  wealth  of 

youth, 
And   gained  .  .  .  what  ?     But  this 

change  had  surely  come, 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


353 


Even  were  all  things  other  than  they 
are. 

I  blame  myself  o'ermuch,  who  should 
blame  time, 

And  life's  inevitable  loss,  and  fate, 

And  days  grown  lovelier  in  the  retro- 
spect. 

"We  change  :  wherefore  look  back  ? 
The  path  to  safety 

Lies  forward  .  .  .  forward  ever. 

\ln  passing  toward  the  house  she 
recognizes  the  shield  of  Agamem- 
non, and  pauses  before  it. 

Ha  !  old  shield, 
Hide  np  for  shame  that  honest  face 

of  thine. 
Stare  not  so  bluntly  at  us  .  .  .  O, 

this  man  ! 
Why  sticks  the  thought  of  him  so  in 

my  heart  ? 
If  I  had  loved  him  once — if  for  one 

hour — 
Then  were  there  treason  in  this  fall- 
ing off. 
But  never  did  I  feel  this  wretched 

heart 
Until  it  leaped  beneath  JEgisthus' 

eyes. 
"Who  could  have  so  forecounted  all 

from  first  ? 
From  that  flusht  moment  when  his 

hand  in  mine 
Eested  a  thought  too  long,  a  touch 

too  kind, 
To  leave  its  pulse  unwarmed  .  .  . 

but  1  remember 
I  dreamed  sweet  dreams  that  night, 

and  slept  till  dawn, 
And    woke    with    flutterings    of    a 

happy  thought, 
And  felt,  not  worse,  but  better  .  .  . 

And  now  .  .  .  now  ? 
When  first  a  strange  and  novel  ten- 
derness 
Quivered  in  these  salt  eyes,  had  one 

said  then 
"O  bead  of  dew  may  drag  a  deluge 

down  : " — 
In  that  first  pensive  pause,  through 

which  I  watched 


Unwonted    sadness    on    ^Egisthus' 

brows, 
Had  some  one  whispered,  "  Ay,  the 

summer-cloud 
Comes  first:  the  tempest  follows." — 
Well,  what's  past 
Is  past.     Perchance  the  worst's  to 

follow  yet. 
How  thou  art  hackt,  and  hewn,  and 

bruised,  old  shield  ! 
Was    the    whole  edge  of    the  war 

against  one  man  ? 
But  one  thrust  more  upon  this  dexter 

ridge 
Had  quite  cut  through  the  double 

inmost  hide. 
He  must  have  stood  to  it  well !    O,  he 

was  cast 
I'  the  mould  of  Titans  :   a  magnifi- 
cent man. 
With  head    and    shoulders    like    a 

God's.     He  seemed 
Too  brimful  of  this  merry  vigorous 

life 
To  spill  it  all  out  at  one  stab  o'  the 

sword. 
Yet  that  had  helped  much  ill  ...  O 

Destiny 
Makes  cov/ards  or  makes  culprits  of 

us  all ! 
Ah,  had  some  Trojan  weapon  .  .  . 

Fool  !  fool  !  fool  ! 
Surely  sometimes  the  unseen  Eume- 

nides 
Do  prompt  our  musing  moods  with 

wicked  hints. 
And  lash  us  for  our  crimes  ere  we 

commit  them. 
Here,  round  this  silver  boss,  he  cut 

my  name, 
Once — long  ago  :  he  cut  it  as  he  lay 
Tired  out  with  brawling  pastimes — 

prone — his  limbs 
At  length  diffused— his  head  droopt 

in  my  lap — 
His  spear  flung  by  :  Electra  by  the 

hearth 
Sat  with  the  young  Orestes  on  her 

knee  ; 
While  he,  with  an  old  broken  sword, 

hacked  out 


354 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


These      crooked     characters,     and 

laughed  to  see 
(Sprawled  from  the  unused  strength 

of  his  large  hands) 
The  marks  make  Clytemxestra. 

How  he  laughed  ! 
uEgisthus'  hands  are  smaller. 

Yet- 1  know 
That  matrons  envied  me  my  hus- 
band's strength. 
And  I  remember  when  he    strode 

among 
The  Argive  crowd  he  topped  them 

by  a  head, 
And  tall  men  stood   wide-eyed   to 

look  at  him, 
Where  his  great  plumes  went  tossing 

up  and  down 
The  brazen  prores  drawn  out  upon 

the  sand. 
War  on  his  front  was  graved,  as  on 

thy  disk. 
Shield  !  which  he  left  to  keep  his 

memory 
Grand  in  men's  mouths  :  that  some 

revered  old  man 
Winning  to  this  the  eyes  of  our  hot 

youth, 
Might  say,  "  'Twas  hei-e,  and  here — 

this  dent,  and  that — 
in  such,  and  such  afield  (which  we 

remember)  [time, 

That  Agamemnon,  in  the  great  old 
Held  up  the  battle." 

Now  lie  there,  and  rest ! 
Thy  uses  all  have  end.    Thy  master's 

home 
Should  harbor  none  but  friends. 

O  triple  brass, 
Iron,  and  oak  !  the  blows  of  blund- 
ering men 
Clang    idly    on    you  :    what    fool's 

strength  is  yours  ! 
For,   surely,    not    the    adamantine 

tunic 
Of  Ares,  nor  whole  shells  of  blazing 

plates, 
Nor  ashen  spear,  nor  all  the  cum- 
brous coil 
Of  seven  bulls'  hides  may  guard  the 

strongest  king 


From  one  defenceless  woman's  quiet 
hate. 

What  noise  was  that  ?    Where  can 

^gisthus  be  ? 
^gisthus  !  —  my  ^gisthus  !    .   .   . 

There  again  ! 
Louder,     and     longer  —  from     the 

Agora — 
A  mighty  shout :  and  now  I  see  i' 

the  air 
A  rolling  dust  the  wind  blows  near. 

iEgistlius  ! 

0  much  \  fear  .  .  .  this   wild-willed 

race  of  ours 
Doth  ever,  like  a  young  unbroken 

colt, 
Chafe  at  the  straightened  bridle  of 

our  stal  e — 
If  they  should  find  him  lone,  irreso- 
lute. 
As  is  his  wont  ...  I  know  he  lacks 

the  eye 
And  forehead  wherewith  crowned 

Capacity 
Awes  rash  Rebellion  back. 

Again  that  shout  ! 
Gods  keep  vEgisthus  safe  !    myself 

will  front 
Tliis  novel  storm.      How  my  heart 

leaps  to  danger  ! 

1  have  been  so  long  a  pilot  on  rough 

seas. 
And  almost  rudderless  ! 

O  yet 'tis  much 
To  feel  a  power,   self-centred,  self- 
assured. 
Bridling  a  glorious  danger  !  as  when 

one 
That    knows    the    nature    of    the 

elements 
Guides  some  frail  plank  with  sublime 

skill  that  wins 
Progress  from  all  obstruction  ;  and, 

erect, 
Looks   bold  and  free  down   all  the 

dripping  slars. 
Hearing  the    hungry    storm   boom  , 

baffled  by. 
JEgisthus  !.  .  .  hark  ! .  .  .  ^gisthusl  j 

.  . .  there . .  .  ^gisthus  ! 


CL  YTEMNESTkA. 


355 


I  would  to  all  the  Gods  I  knew  him 

safe  ! 
Who   comes  this   way,   guiding  his 

racing  feet 
Safe  to  us,  like  a  nimble  charioteer  ? 

IV.  CLYTEMNESTRA.  HERALD. 

CLYTEMXESTRA. 

Now,   gloom-bird  !  are  there  prod- 
igies about  ? 
What  new  ill-thing  sent  thee  before? 

HERALD. 

O  Queen — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Speak,   if    thou  hast  a    voice  !     I 
listen. 

HERALD. 

O  Queen — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Hath  an  ox  trodden  on  thy  tongue  ? 
.  .  .  Speak  then  ! 


O  Queen  (for  haste  hath  caught  away 

my  breath), 
The  King  is  coming. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Say  again — the  King 


Is  coming — 


HERALD. 


Even  now,  the  broad  sea-fields 
Grow  white  with  flocks  of  sails,  and 

towards  the  west 
The  sloped  horizon  teems  with   ris- 
ing beaks. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

The  people  know  this  ? 

HERALD. 

Heard  you  not  the  noise  ? 
For  soon  as   this  winged  news  had 

toucht  the  gate 
The  whole  land  shouted  in  the  sun. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

So  soon  ! 
The    thought's      outsped    by     the 

reality, 
And  halts  agape  .  .  .  the  King — 

HERALD. 

How  she  is  moved. 
A  noble  woman  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Wherefore  beat  so  fast, 
Thou    foolish  heart?    'tis  not  thy 
master — 

HERALD. 

Truly 
She  looks    all    over  Agamemnon's 
mate. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Destiny,  Destiny  !    The  deed's  half 
done. 

HERALD. 

She  will  not  speak,  save    by  that 

brooding  eye 
Whose  light  is  language.    Some  great 

thought,  I  see. 
Mounts  up  the  royal  chambers  of 

her  blood. 
As  a  king  mounts  his  palace  ;  holds 

high  pomp 
In  her  Olympian  bosom  ;  gains  her 

face. 
Possesses    all    her    noble    glowing 

cheek 
With  sudden    state  ;    and    gathers 

grandly  up 
Its  slow  majestic   meanings  in  her 

eyes  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

So  quick  this  sudden  joy  hath  taken 

us, 
I  scarce  can  realize  the  sum  of  it. 
You  say  the  King  comes  here,— the 

King,  my  husband. 
Whom  we^have  waited  for  ten  years, 

— O  joy  I 


..  35^ 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


Pardon  our  seeming  roughness  at  the 

first. 
Hope,  that  will  often    fawn    upon 

despair       • 
And  flatter  desperate  chances,  when 

the  event 
Falls  at  our  feet,  soon  takes  a  quer- 
ulous tone, 
And  jealous  of  that  perfect  joy  she 

guards 
(Lest  the  ambrosial  fruit  by  some 

rude  hand 
Be  stol'n  away  from  her^  and  never 

tasted), 
Barks  like  a  lean  watch-dog  at  all 

who  come. 
But    now   do  you,  with  what  good 

speed  you  may, 
Make  known  this  glad  intelligence  to 

all. 
Ourselves,  within,   as  best  befits   a 

wife 
And  woman,  will  prepare  my  hus- 
band's house. 
Also,   I  pray  you,  summon  to  our 

side 
Our  cousin,  ^gisthus.     We  would 

speak  with  him. 
We  w^ould  that  our  own  lips  should 

be  the  first 
To  break  these  tidings  to  him  ;  so 

obtaining 
New  joy  by  sharing  his.     And,  for 

yourself, 
Receive     our    gratitude.      For  this 

great  news 
Henceforth  you  hold  our  royal  love 

in  fee. 
Our  fairest  fortunes  from  this  day  I 

date. 
And  to  the  House  of  Tantalus  new 

honor. 

HEKALD. 

She's  gone  !    With  what  a  majesty 

she  filled 
The  whole  of  space  !    The  statues  of 

the  Gods 
Are  not  so  godlike.    She  has  Here's 

eyes, 
And  looks  immortal  1 


y.  CLYTEMNESTRA.    CHORUS. 

CLYTEMNESTRA  {a8  she  ascends  the 
steps  of  the  Palace). 

So  .  .  .  while  on  the  verge 
Of  some    wild    purpose    we    hang 

dizzily, 
Weighing  the  danger    of  the  leap 

below 
Against  the    danger    of    retreating 

steps. 
Upon  a  sudden,  some  forecast  event. 
Issuing  full-armed  from  Councils  of 

the  Gods, 
Strides  to  us,  plucks  us  by  the  hair, 

and  hurls 
Headlong    pale    conscience    to    the 

abyss  of  crime. 
Well — I  shrink  not.      'Tis  but  a  leap 

in  life. 
There's  fate  in  this.      Why  is   he 

here  so  soon  ? 
The  sight  of  whose   abhorred   eyes 

will  add 
Whatever  lacks  of  strength  to   this 

resolve. 
Away  with    shame  !     I  have    had 

enough  of  it. 
What's  here  for  shame  ?    .  .  .  the 

weak  against  the  strong  ? 
And  if  the  weak  be  victor  ?  .  .  .  what 

of  that  ? 
Tush  !  .  .  .  there, — my  soul  is  set 

to  it.     What  need 
Of  argument  to  justify  an  act 
Necessity    compels,   and   must   ab- 
solve ? 
I  have  been  at  play  with  scruples- 
like  a  girl. 
Now  they  are  all  flung  by.     I  have 

talked  with  Crime 
Too  long  to  play  the  prude.     These 

thoughts  have  been 
Wild  guests  by  night.     Now  I  shall 

dare  to  do 
That    which    I    did    not    dare    to 

think  .  .  .  O,  now 
I  know  myself  i    Crime's  easier  than 

we  dream. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


35^ 


CHORUS. 

Upon  the  everlasting  bills 
Throned  Justice  works,  and  waits. 
Between  the  shooting  of  a  star, 
That  falls  unseen  on  summer  nights 
Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  dark, 
And  the  magnificent  march  of  War, 
Rolled  from  angry  lands  afar 
Round  some  doome'd  city-gates. 
Nothing  is  to  her  unknown  ; 

Nothing  unseen. 
Upon  her  hills  she  sits  alone. 
And  in  the  balance  of  Eternity- 
Poises  against  the  What-has-been 
The  weight  of  What-shall-be. 
She  sums  the  account  of  human  ills. 
The  great  world's  hoarded  wrongs 

and  rights 
Are  in  her  treasures.  She  will  mark, 
With  inward-searching  eyes  sublime. 
The  frauds  of  Time. 
The  empty  future  years  she  fills 
Out  of  the  past.     All  human  wills 
Sway  to  her  on  her  reachless  heights. 

Wisdom    she    teaches    men,     with 

tears, 
In  the  toilful  school  of  years  : 
Climbing  from  event  lo  event. 
And,  being  patient,  is  content 
To  stretch  her  sightless  arms  about. 
And  find  some  human  instrument, 
From  many  sorrows  to  work  out 
Her  doubtful,  far  accomplishment. 

She  the  two  Atridfe  sent 

Upon  Uion  :  being  intent 

The  heapt-up  wrath  of  Heaven  to 

move 
Against  the  faithless  Phrygian  crime. 
Them  the  Thunder-bird  of  Jove, 
Swooping  sudden  from  above, 
Summoned  to  fates  sublime. 

She,  being  injured,  for  the  sake 
Of  her,  the  often-wedded  wife, 
(Too  loved,  and  too  adoring  !) 
Many  a  brazen  band  did  break 
In  many  a  breathless  battle-strife  ; 
Many  a  noble  life  did  take  ; 


Many  a  headlong  agony, 
i  Frenzied  shout,  and  frantic  cry, 
j  For  Greek  and  Trojan  storing. 
When,  the  spear  in  the  onset  being 

shivered, 
I  The   reeling  ranks  were  rolled  to- 
gether 
Like  mad  waves  mingling  in  windy 

weather, 
Dasht  fearfully  over  and  over  each 

other. 
And   the    plumes  of    Princes  were 

tossed  and  thrust, 
And  dragged  about  in  the  shameful 

dusl;  ; 
And  the  painful',  panting  breath 
Came  and  v/ent  in  the  tug  of  death  : 
'  And  the  sinews  were  loosened,  and 

the  strong  knees  stricken  : 
'  And  the  eyes  began  to  darken  and 
'  thicken  : 

;  And  the  arm  of  the  mighty  and  ter- 
j  rible  quivered. 

O  Love  !  Love  !  Love  !    How  terri- 
i       '      ble  art  thou  ! 
How  terrible  ! 
O,  what  hast  thou  to  do 
I  With  men  of  mortal  years, 
'^Yho  toil  below. 
And  have  enough  of  griefs  for  tears 

to  flow  ? 
O,  range  in  higher  spheres  ! 
Hast  thou,  O  hast  thou,  no  diviner 

hues 
To  paint  thy  wings,  but  must  trans- 
fuse 
An  Iris-light  from  tears  ? 
For  human  hearts  are  all  too  weak 

to  hold  thee. 
And  how,  O  Love,  shall  Iraman  arms 

infold  thee  ? 
There  is  a  seal  of  sorrow  on  thy 

brow. 
There  is  a  deadly  fire  in  thy  breath. 
With  life  thou  lurest,  yet  thou  givest 

death. 
O  Love,  the  Gods  are  weak  by  reason 

of  thee  ; 
And  many  wars  have  been  upon  the 

eurtk. 


358 


CLYTEMArESTRA. 


Thou    art  the    sweetest    source   of 

saltest  sorrows. 
Thy  blest  to-days  bring  such  unblest 

to-morrows  ; 
Thy    softest    hope    makes    saddest 

memory. 
Thou  hadst  destruction  in  thee  from 

the  birth  ; 
Incomprehensible  ! 

O  Love,  thy  brightest  bridal  gar- 
ments 

Are  poisoned,  like  that  robe  of  ag- 
onies 

'Which  Deianira  wove  for  Hercules, 

And,  being  put  on,  turn  presently 
to  cerements  ! 

Thou  art  unconquered  in  the  fight. 

Thou  rangest  over  land  and  sea. 

O  let  the  foolish  nations  be  ! 

Keep  thy  divine  desire 

To  upheave  mountains  or  to  kindle 
fire 

From  the  frore  frost,  and  set  the 
world  alight. 

Why  make  thy  red  couch  in  the 
damask  cheek  7 

Or  light  thy  torch  at  languid  eyes  ? 

Or  lie  entangled  in  soft  sighs 

On  pensive  lips  that  will  not  speak  ? 

To  sow  the  seeds  of  evil  things 

In  the  hearts  of  headstrong  kings  ? 

Preparing  many  a  kindred  strife 

For  the  fearful  future  hour  ? 

O  leave  the  wretched  race  of  man. 

Whose  days  are  but  the  dying  sea- 
sons' span  ; 

Vex  not  his  painful  life  ! 

Make  thy  immortal  sport 

In  heaven's  high  court, 

And  cope  with  Gods  that  are  of 
equal  power. 

VI.    ELECTRA.    CHORUS.    CLY- 
TEMNESTRA. 

ELECTRA. 

Now  is  at  hand  the  hour  of  retribu- 
tion. 


For  my  father,  at  last  returning. 
In  great    power,   being  greatly    in- 
jured. 
Will  destroy  the  base  adulterer, 
And  efface  the  shameful  Past. 

CHORUS. 

O  child  of  the  Godlike  Agamemnon! 
Leave  vengeance  to  the  power  of 

Heaven  ; 
Nor  forestall  with  impious  footsteps 
The  brazen  tread  of  black  Erinnys. 

ELECTRA. 

Is  it,  besotted  with  the  adulterous 

sin, 
Or,  as  with  flattery  pleasing  present 

power. 
Or,  being  intimidate,  you  speak  these 

words  ? 

CHORUS. 

Nay,  but  desiring  justice,  like  your- 
self. 

ELECTRA. 

Yet  Justice  ofttimes    uses    mortal 


CHORUS. 

But  flings  aside  her  tools  when  work 
is  done. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

0  dearest  friends,  inform  me,  went 

this  way 
^gisthus  ? 

CHORUS. 

Even  now,  hurrying  hitherward 

1  see  him  walk,  with  irritated  eyes. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

A  reed  may  show  which  way  the 

tempest  blows. 
That  face  is  pale,— those  brows  are 

dark  ...  ah  I 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


359 


VII.  ^GISTHUS.  CLYTEMNES- 
TRA. 

^GISTHUS. 

Agamemnoi 

CLYTEMXESTKA. 

My  husband  .  .  .  well  ? 

^GISTHUS- 

(IVliom  may  the  great  Gods  curse  !) 
li  scarce  an  hour  hence. 

CLYTEMXESTRA. 

Then  that  hour's  yet  saved 
From  sorrow.     Smile,  ^gisthus — 

JEGISTHUS. 

Hear  me  speak. 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

Not  as  your  later  wont  has  been  to 

smile — 
Quick,  fierce,  as  though  you  scarce 

could  hurry  out 
The    v.ild  thing  fast  enough  ;   for 

smiling's  sake, 
As  if  to  show  you  could  smile,  though 

in  fear 
Of  what  might  follow, — but  as  first 

you  smiled 
Years,*^  years  ago,  when  some  slow 

loving  thought 
Stole  down  your  face,  and  settled  on 

your  lips. 
As  though  a  sunbeam  halted  on  a 

rose. 
And  mixed  with    fragrance,   light. 

Can  you  smile  still 
Just  so,  ^gisthus  ? 

^GISTHUS. 

These  are  idle  words, 
And  like  the  wanderings  of  some 

fevered  brain  : 
Extravagant  phrases,  void  of  import, 

wild. 


CLYTEMNESTilA. 

Ah,  no  !  you  cannot  smile  so,  more. 
Nor  I  ! 

^GISTHUS. 

Hark  !  in  an  hour  the  King — 

CLYTEMXESTRA. 

Hush  !  listen  now, — 
I  hear,  far  down  yon  vale,  a  shepherd 

piping 
Hard  by  his  milk-white  flock.     The 

lazy  things  ! 
How  quietly  they  sleep  or  feed  among 
The    dry  grass    and    the    acanthus 

there  !  .  .  .  and  he, 
He  hath  flung  his  faun-skin  by,  and 

white-ash  stick. 
You  hear  his  hymn  ?    Something  of 

Dryope. 
Faunus,  and  Pan  ...  an  old  wood 

tale,  no  doubt  ! 
It  makes  me  think  of  songs  when  I 

was  young 
I  used  to  sing  between  the  valleys 

there. 
Or  higher  up  among  the  red  ash- 
berries, 
Where  the  goats   climb,  and  gaze. 

Do  you  remember 
That  evening  when  we  lingered  all 

alone. 
Below  the  city,  and  one  yellow  star 
Shook    o'er    yon  temple  ?  .  .  .  ah, 

and  you  said  then, 
"  Sweet,  should  this  evening  never 

change  to  night. 
But  pause,  and  pause,  and  stay  just 

so, — yon  star 
Still  steadfast,  and  the  moon  behind 

the  hill. 
Still  rising,  never  risen, — ^would  this 

seem  strange  ? 
Or  should  we  say,  '  why  halts  the 

day  so  late  ?'  " 
Do  you  remember  ? 

^GISTHUS. 

Woman  !  woman  !  this 
Surpasses  frenzy  !    Not  ^  breath  ol 
time 


36o 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


Between    us     and    the    clutch    of 

Destiny, — 
Already  sound  there  footsteps  at  our 

heels, 
Already  comes   a  heat  against  our 

cheek, 
Already  fingers  cold  among  our  hair, 
And    you    speak    lightly    thus,    as 

though  the  day 
Lingered  toward  nuptial  hours  I .  .  . 

awake  !  arouse  ! 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

I  do  wake  .  .  .  well,  the  King — 

^GISTHUS. 

Even  while  we  speak 
Draws  near.     And  we — 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

Must  meet  him. 

^GISTHUS. 

Meet  ?  ay  .  .  .  how  ? 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

As  mortals  should  meet  fortune — 
calmly. 

^GISTHUS. 

Quick  ! 
Consult  !  consult  !  Yet  there  is  time 

to  choose 
The  path  to  follow. 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

I  have  chosen  it 


Long  since. 

^GISTHUS. 

How?— 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

O,  have  we  not  had  ten  years 
To  ripen  counsel, .  and  mature  re- 
solve ? 
What's  to  add  now  ? 


^GISTHUS. 

I  comprehend  you  not. 
The  time  is  plucking  at  our  sleeve. 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

^gisthus, 
There  shall  he  time  for  deeds,  and 

soon  enough, 
Let  that  come  when  it  may.     And  it 

may  be 
Deeds  must  he  done  shall  shut  and 

shrivel  up 
All  quiet  thoughts,  and  quite  pre- 
clude repose 
To    the    end    of    time.     Upon   this 

awful  strait 
And  promontory  of  our  mortal  life 
We  stand  between  what  was,  and  is 

not  yet. 
The  Gods  allot  to  us  a  little  space. 
Before  the  contests  which  must  soon 

beghi. 
For    cahner  breathing.     All  before 

lies  dark, 
And    difficult,    and    perilous,    and 

strange  ; 
And  all  behind  .  .  .  What  if  we  take 

one  look. 
One  last  long  lingering  look  (before 

Despair, 
The  shadow  of  failure,  or  remorse, 

which  often 
Waits  on  success,  can  come  'twixt  us 

and  it, 
And  darken  all)  at  that  which  yet 

must  seem 
Undimmed  in  the  long  retrospect  of 

years, — 
The  beautiful  imperishable  Past ! 
Were  this   not  natural,  being  inno- 
cent now 
— At  least  of  that  which  is  the  greater 

crime  ! 
To-night  we  shall  not  be  so. 

^GISTHUS. 

Ah,  to-night  ! 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

All  will  be  done  which  now  the  Gods 

foresee. 
The  sun  shines  stiU. 


CL  YTEMf^ESTRA. 


361 


uEGISTHUS. 

I  oft  have  marked  some  day- 
Begin  all  gold  in  its  flusht  orient, 
With  splendid  promise  to  the  wait- 
ing world, 
And  turn  to  blackness  ere  the  sun 

ran  down. 
So  draws  our  love  to  its  dark  close. 
To-night — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Shall  bring  our  bridals,  my  Beloved  ! 

For,  either 
Upon    the    melancholy    shores    of 

Death 
(One  shadow  near  the  doors  of  Pluto) 

greeted 
By  j)ale  Proserpina,  our  steps  shall 

be, 
Or  else,  secure,  in -the  great  empty 

palace 
We  shall  sleep  crowned — no  noise  to 

startle  us — 
And  Argos  silent  round  us — all  our 

own  ! 

^GISTHUS. 

In  truth  I  do  not  dare  to  think  this 

thing. 
For  all  the^Greeks  will  hate  us. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

What  of  that  ? 
If  that  thev  do  not  harm  us, — as  who 
shall  ? 

^GISTHUS. 

Moreover,  though  we  triumph  in  the 

act 
(And  we  may  fail,  and  fall)  we  shall 

go  down 
Covered  with  this  reproach  into  the 

tomb. 
Hunted  by  all  the  red  Eumenides  ; 
And,  in  the  end,  th  >  ghost  of  him  we 

slew, 
Being  beforehand  there,  will  come 

between 
Us  and  the    aw^ful  Judges    of  the 

dead  ! 


And  no  one  on  this  earth  will  pray 

for  us  ; 
And  no  hand  will  hang  garlands  on 

our  urns. 
Either  of  man,   or  maid,  or    little 

child  ; 
But  we  shall  be  dishonored. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  faint  heart  ] 
When  this  poor  life  of  ours  is  done 

with — all 
Its  foolish  days  put  by — its  bright 

and  dark — 
Its  praise   and  blame — rolled   quite 

away — gone  o'er 
Like  some  brief  pageant — will  it  stir 

us  more. 
Where  we  are  gone,  how  men  may 

hoot  or  shout 
After  our  footsteps,  then  the  dust 

and  garlands 
A  few  mad  boys  and  girls  fling  in 

the  air 
When  a  great  host  is  passed,  can 

cheer  or  vex 
The  minds  of  men  already  out  of 

sight 
Toward  other  lands,  with  paean  and 

with  pomp 
Arrayed  near  vaster  forces  ?     For 

the  future, 
We  will  smoke  hecatombs,  and  build 

new  fanes, 
And   be    you  sure    the    gods    deal 

leniently 
With  those  who  grapple  for  their 

life,  and  pluck  i"; 
From  the  closed  grip  of  Fate,  albeit 

perchance 
Some    ugly  smutch,   some   drop  of 

blood  or  so, 
A  spot  here,  there  a  streak,  or  stain 

of  gore. 
Should  in  the  contest  fall  to  them, 

and  mar 
That  life's  original  whiteness. 

^GISTHUS. 

Tombs  have  tongues 


352 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


That    talk    in    Hades.      Think    it ! 

Dare  we  hope, 
This  done,  to  be  more  happy  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

My  Beloved, 
We  are  not  happy, — we  may  never 

be, 
Perchance,  again.     Yet  it  is  much  to 

think 
We  have  been  so  :  and  even  though 

we  must  weep. 
We  have  enjoyed. 

The  roses  and  the  thorns 
We    have    plucked    together.       We 

have  proved  both.     Say, 

t  not  worth 

they  left  us 
To  have  won  such  flowers  ?    And  if 

'twere  possible 
To  keep  them  still, — keep  even  the 

withered  leaves, 
Even  the  withered  leaves  are  worth 

our  care. 
We  will  not  tamely  give  up  life, — 

such  life  ! 
What  though  the  years  before,  like 

those  behind, 
Be  dark  as  clouds  the  thunder  sits 

among, 
Tipt  only  here  and  there  with  a  wan 

gold 
More  bright  for  rains  between  ? — 

'tis^much, — 'tis  more. 
For  we  shall  ever  think  *' the  sun's 

behind. 
The  sun  must  shine  before  the  day 

goes  down  ! " 
Anything  better  than  the  long,  long 

night, 
And  that  perpetual  silence  of  the 

tomb  ! 
'Tis  not  for  happier  hours,  but  life 

itself 
Which  may  bring  happier  hours,  we 

strike  at  Fate. 
Why,  though  from  all  the  treasury 

of  the  Past 
'Tis  but  one  solitary  gem  we  save — 
One  kiss  more  such  as  we  have  kist, 

o»e  smile, 


One  more  embrace,  one  night  more 

such  as  those 
Which  we  have  shared,  how  costly 

were  the  prize, 
How  richly  worth  the  attempt !    In- 
deed, I  know. 
When    yet    a    child,   in  those  dim 

pleasant  dreams 
A  girl    will    dream,    perchance    in 

twilit  hours, 
Or  under  eve's  first  star  (when  we 

are  young 
Happiness    seems    so    possible, — so 

near  ! 
One  says,  "  it  must  go  hard,  but  I 

shall  find  it  !" ) 
Of ttimes  I  mused, — ' '  My  life  shall 

be  my  own. 
To  make  it  what  I  will."     It  is  their 

fault 
(I  thought)  who  miss  the  true  de- 
lights.    I  thought 
Men  might  have  saved  themselves  : 

they  flung  away, 
Too    easily    abasht,    life's    opening 

promise  : 
But  all  things  will  be  different  for 

me. 
For  I  felt  life    so    strong   in  mc  ! 

indeed 
I  was  so  sure  of  my  own  power  to 

love 
And  to  enjoy, — I  had  so  nmch  to 

give, 
I  said,  "be  sure  it  must  win  some- 
thing back  !" 
Youth  is  so  confident !    And  though 

I  saw 
All  women  sad, — not  only  those  I 

knew. 
As    Helen    (whom    from    youth    I 

knew,  nor  ever 
Divined  that  sad  impenetrable  smile 
Which  oft    would    darken  through 

her  lustrous  eyes. 
As  drawing  slowly  down  o'er  her 

cold  cheek 
The  yellow  braids  of  odorous  hair, 

she  turned 
From  Menelaus   praising  her,   and 

sighed,— 


CL  YTEMNESTRA, 


3^3 


That  was  before  he,  flinging  bitterly 

down 
The    trampled     paraiey-crown    and 

iindrained  goblet, 
Cursed  before  all  the  Gods  his  sud- 
den shame 
And    young    Hermione's    deserted 

youth  !) 
Not  only  her, — but  all  whose  lives  I 

learned, 
I>Iedea,  Deianira,  Ariadne, 
And      many     others,  —  all      weak, 

wronged,  opprest. 
Or    sick  and    sorrowful,    as    I    am 

now, — 
Yet  in  their  fate  I  would  not  see  my 

own, 
Nor  grant  allegiance  to  that  general 

law 
From  which  a  few,  I  knew  a  very 

few, 
With  whom  it  seemed  I  also -might 

be  numbered. 
Had  yet  escaped   securely  : — so  ex- 
empting 
From  this  world's  desolation  every- 
where 
One  fate — my  own  ! 

Well,  that  was  foolish  !    Now 
I  am  not  so  exacting.     As  we  move 
Further  and  further  down  the  path 

of  fate 
To  the  sure  tomb,  we  yield  up,  one 

by  one. 
Our    claims    on   Fortune,   till   with 

each  nev/  year 
We  seek  less  and  go  further  to  ob- 
tain it. 
'Tis  the  old   tale, — aye,  all  of   us 

must  learn  it  ! 
But  yet  I  would  not  empty-handed 

stand 
Before  the  House  of  Hades.     Still 

there's  life, 
And  hope  with  life  ;  and  much  that 

may  be  done. 
Look  up,    O   thou   most    dear    and 

cherisht  head  ! 
We'll  strive  still,  conquering  ;  or,  -x 

falling,  fall 
In  sight  of  grand  results, 


^GISTHUS. 

May  these  things  be  ! 

I  know  not.  All  is  vague.  I  should 
be  strong 

Even  were  you  weak.  'Tis  other- 
wise— I  see, 

No  path  to  safety  sure.  We  have 
done  ill  things. 

Best  let  the  past  W  past,  lest  new 
griefs  come. 

Best  we  part  now. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Part  !  what,  to  part  from  thee  ! 
Never  till  death, — not  in  death  even, 
part  ! 

JEGISTHUS. 

But  one  course  now  is  left. 

CLYTEMXESTRA. 

And  that  is — 

^GISTHUS. 


Flight. 


CLY'TEMNESTRA. 


Coward  ! 


^GISTHUS. 

I  care  not. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Flight  I  I  am  a  Queen. 
A  goddess  once  you  said, — and  why 

not  goddess  ? 
Seeing  the  Gods  are  mightier  than 

we 
By  so  much  more  of  courage.     O, 

not  I, 
But  you,  are  mad. 

^GISTHUS. 

Nay,  wiser  than  I  was. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I 

,  And  you  will  leave  me  ? 

j  ■  ^GISTHUS. 

1  Not  if  you  will  comQ, 


3^4 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


CLYTEMNESTKA. 

This  was  the  Atlas  of  the  world  I 
built ! 

^GISTHUS. 

Flight !  .  .  .  yes,  I  know  not  .  .  . 

somewhere  .  .  .  anyw^iere. 
You  come  ?   ...    you  come  not  ? 

well  ?  ...  no  time  to  pause  ! 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

A.nd  this  is  he — this  he,  the  man  I 

loved  ! 
And    this  is    retribution  !     O    my 

heart  ! 
0    Agamemnon,    how     art     thou 

avenged  ! 
And  I  have  done  so  much  for  him  ! 

.    .    .   would  do 
So    much  !    .    .    .    a   universe  lies 

ruined  here. 
Now  by  Apollo,  be  a  man  for  once  ! 
Be  for  once  strong,  or  be  forever 

weak  ! 
If  shame  be  dead,  and  honor  be  no 

more. 
No  more  true  faith,  nor  that  which 

in  old  time 
Made  us  like  Gods,  sublime  in  our 

high  place, 
Yet  all    surviving    instincts    warn 

from  flight. 
Flight  ! — O,  impossible  !    Even  now 

the  steps 
Of  fate  are  at  the  threshold.    Which 

way  fly  ? 
For  every  avenue  is  barred  by  death. 
Will  these  not    scout    your  flying 

heels  ?    If  now 
They  hate  us  powerful,   will  they 

love  us  weak  ? 
No  land  is  safe  ;   nor  any  neighbor- 
ing king 
Will  harbor  Agamemnon's  enemy. 
Reflect  on  Troy  ;  her  ashes  smoul- 
der yet. 

JEGISTHUS. 

Her  words  compel  me  with  their  aw- 
ful truth. 


For  so  would  vengeance  hound  and 
earth  us  down. 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

If  I  am  weak  to  move  you  by  that 

love 
You  swore  long  since — and  sealed  it 

with  false  lips  ! — 
Yet  lives  there  nothing  of  the  ambi- 
tious will  ? 
Of  those  proud  plots,  and  dexterous 

policy. 
On  which  you  builded    such  high 

hopes,  and  swore 
To    rule    this    people  Agamemnon 

rules  ; 
Supplant  him  eminent  on  his  own 

throne, 
And  push  our  power  through  Greece? 

^GISTHUS. 

The  dream  was  great. 
It  was  a  dream.     We  dreamt  it  like 
a  king. 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

Ay,  and  shall  so  fulfil  it— like  a 
King  ! 

Who  talks  of  flight  ?  For  now,  be- 
think you  well, 

If  to  live  on,  the  byword  of  a  world, 

Be  any  gain,  even  such  flight  offers 
not. 

Will  long-armed  Vengeance  never 
find  you  out 

Wlien  you  have  left  the  weapon  in 
her  hands '? 

Be  bold,  and  meet  her  !  Who  fore- 
stall the  bolts 

Of  heaven,  the  Gods  deem  worthy 
of  the  Gods. 

Success  is  made  the  measure  of  our 
acts. 

And,  think,  JEgisthus,  there  has 
been  one  thought 

Before  us  in  the  intervals  of  years. 

Between  us  ever  in  the  long  dark 
nights. 

When,  lying  all  awake,  we  heard  the 
wind. 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


3^5 


Do  you  shrink  then  ?  or,  only  closer 
drawing 

Your  lips  to  mine,  your  arms  about 
my  neck, 

Say,  "  "VVho  would  fear  such  chances, 
w^hen  lie  saw 

Behind  them  such  a  prize  for  him  as 
this?" 

Do  you  shrink  now  ?  Dare  you  put 
all  this  from  you  ? 

Revoke  the  promise  of  those  years, 
and  say 

This  prospect  meets  you  unprepared 
at  last  ? 

Our  motives  are  so  mixt  in  their  be- 
ginnings 

And  so  confused,  we  recognize  them 
not 

Till  they  are  grown  to  acts  ;  but 
ne'er  were  ours 

So  blindly  wov'n,  but  what  we  both 
untangled 

Out  of  the  intricacies  of  the  heart 

One  purpose  : — being  found,  best 
grapple  to  it. 

For  to  conceive  ill  deeds  yet  dare  not 
do  them, 

This  is  not  virrtue,  but  a  twofold 
shame. 

Between  the  culprit  and  the  demi- 
god 

There's  but  one  difference  men  re- 
gard— success. 

The  weakly-wicked  shall  be  doubly 
damned  ! 

^GISTHUS. 

I  am  not  weak  .  .  .  what  will  you  ? 

.  .  .  O,  too  w^eak 
To  bear  this   scorn  !  .  .  .  She  is  a 

godlike  fiend, 
And  hell  and  heaven  seem  meeting 

in  her  eyes. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Those    who    on    perilous    ventures 

once  embark 
Should    burn  their  ships,  nor  ever 

dream  return. 
Better,  though  all  Olympus  marched 

onus. 


To  die  like  fallen  Titans,  scorning 

Heaven, 
Than  live  like  slaves  in  scorn  of  our 

own  selves  ! 

^GISTHUS. 

We  w^ait  then?    Good  !    and  dare 

this  desperate  chance. 
And  if  we  fall  (as  we,  I  think,  must 

fall) 
It  is  but  some  few  sunny  hours  we 

lose, 
Some  few  bright  days.     True  !   and 

a  little  less 
Of  life,  or  else  of  WTong  a  little  more, 
What's  that  ?    For  one  shade  more 

or  less  the  night 
Will  scarce  seem  darker  or  lighter, 

— the  long  night  ! 
We'll  fall  together,  if  we  fall ;  and 

if— 
O,  if  we  live  ! — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Ay,  that  w^as  noblier  thought. 

Now  you  grow  back  into  yourself, 
your  true  self. 

My  King!  my  chosen  !  my  glad  care- 
less helpmate 

In  the  old  time  !  we  shared  its  pleas- 
ant days 

Koyally,  did  we  not?  How  brief 
they  were  ! 

Nor  will  I  deem  you  less  than  what 
I  know 

You  have  it  in  you  to  become,  for 
this 

Strange  freakish  fear, — this  passing 
brief  alarm. 

Do  I  not  know  the  noble  steed  will 
start 

Aside,  scared  lightly  by  a  straw,  a 
shadow, 

A  thorn-bush  in  the  way,  while  the 
dull  mule 

Plods  stupidly  adown  the  dizziest 
paths  ? 

And  oft  indeed,  such  trifles  will  dis- 
may 

The  finest  and  most  eager  spirits, 
which  yet 


366 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


Daunt  not  a  duller  mind.     O  love, 

be  sure 
Wliate'er  betide,  whether  for  well  or 

ill, 
Thy  fate  and  mine  are  bound  up  in 

one  skein  ; 
Clotho  must  cut  them  both  insep- 

arate. 
You  dare  not  leave  me — had  you 

wings  for  flight  ! 
You  shall  not  leave  me  !    You  are 

mine,  indeed, 
(As  I  am  yours  !)  by  my  strong  right 

of  grief. 
Not   death    together,   but    together 

life! 
Life — life  with  safe  and  honorable 

years, 
And  power  to  do  with  these  that 

which  we  would  ! 
— His  lips  comprest — his  eye  dilates 

— he  is  saved  ! 
O,  when  strong  natures  into  frailer 

ones 
Have  struck  deep  root,  if  one  exalt 

not  both. 
Both  must  drag  down  and  perish  I 

^GISTHUS. 

If  we  should  live — 

CLYTEMNESTKA. 

And  we  shall  live. 

JEGISTHUS. 

Yet  .  .  .  yet— 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

What  !  shrinking  still  ? 
I'll  do  the  deed.     Do  not  stand  off 
from  me. 

^GISTHUS. 

Terrible  Spirit  ! 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

ISTay,  not  terrible. 
Not  to  thee  terrible — O  say  not  so  ! 
To  thee  I  never  have  been  anything 


But  a  weak,   passionate,   unhappy 

woman, 
(O  woe  is  me  !)    and  now  you  f ^ar 

me — 


^GISTHUS. 


No, 


But  rather  worship. 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

O  my  heart,  my  heart, 
It  sends  up  all  its  anguish  in  this 

cry — 
Love  me  a  little? 

^GISTHUS. 

What  a  spell  she  hai 
To  sway  the  inmost  courses  of  the 

soul  ! 
My  spirit  is  held  up  to  such  a  height 
I  dare  not  breathe.     How  finely  sits 

this  sorrow 
Upon  her,   like  the    garment  of  a 

God! 
I  cannot  fathom    her.      Does    tli3 

same  birth 
Bring  forth  the    monster    and  the 

demigod  ? 

CLYTEMNESTEA. 

I  will  not  doubt  !    All's  lost,  if  love 

be  lost, — 
Peace,     honor,    innocence,  —  gone, 

gone  !  all  gone 
And    you,  too  —  you,   poor    baffled 

crownless  schemer. 
Whose  life  my    love    makes  royal, 

clothes  in  purple, 
Establishes    in    state,   without   me, 

answer  me, 
What  should  you  do  but  perish,  as  is 

fit? 
O  love,  you  dare  not  cease  to  love 

me  now  ! 
We  have  let  the  world  go  by  us.    We 

have  trusted 
To  ourselves  only  :  if  we  fail  our- 
selves 
What  shall  avail  us  now  ?    Without 

my  love 
What    rest    for  you  but  universal 

hate, 


CL  YTEMNESrnA. 


367 


And  Agamemnon's  sword  ?    Ah,  -^  ^ 

— you  love  me, 
Must  love  me,  better  than  you  ever 

loved, — 
Love  me,  I  think,  as  you  love  life 

itself  ! 
^gisthus  !  Speak,  ^gisthus  ! 

^GISTHUS. 

O  great  heart, 
I  am  all  yours.     Do  with  me  what 
you  will. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O,  if  you  love  me,  I  have  strength 

for  both. 
And  you  do  love  me  still  ? 

^GISTHUS. 

O  more,  thrice  more, 
Thrice  more  then  wert  thou  Aphro- 
dite's self 
Stept  zoned  and  sandalled  from  the 

Olympian  Feasts 
Or  first  revealed  among  the  pink  sea- 
foam. 

CLTTEMXESTRA. 

Whate'er  I  am,  be  sure  that  I  am 
that 

Which  thou  hast  made  me, — noth- 
ing of  myself. 

Once,  all  unheedful,  careless  of  my- 
self, 

And  wholly  ignorant  of  what  I  was, 

I  grew  up  as  a  reed  some  wind  will 
touch. 

And  wake  to  prophecy,— tili  then  ail 
mute, 

And  void  of  melody,  —  a  foolish 
weed  ! 

My  soul  was  blind,  and  all  my  life 
was  dark, 

And  all  my  heart  pined  with  some 
ignorant  want. 

I  moved  about,  a  shadow  in  the 
house, 

And  felt  unwedded  though  I  was  a 
wife  ; 

And  all  the  men  and  women  which 
I  saw 


Were  but  as  pictures  painted  on  a 

wall  : 
To  me  they  had  not  either  heart,  or 

brain. 
Or  lips,  or  language, — pictures !  noth- 
ing more. 
Then,     suddenly,      athwart     those 

lonely  hours 
Which,  day  by  day  dreamed  listlessly 

away. 
Led  to  the  dark    and    melancholy 

tomb. 
Thy  presence  passed   and   touched 

me  with  a  soul. 
My  life  did  but  begin  when  I  found 

thee. 
O  what  a  strength  was  hidden  in  this 

heart  ! 
As,  all  unvalued,  in  its  cold  dark 

cave 
Under  snow  hills,   some    rare  and 

priceless  gem 
May    sparkle  and  burn,   so  in  this 

life  of  mine 
Love  lay  shut  up.    You  broke  the 

rock  away. 
You  lit  upon  the  jewel  that  it  hid, 
You  plucked   it  forth, — to  wear  it, 

my  Beloved  ! 
To  set  in  the- crown  of  thy  dear  life  ! 
To  embellish  fortune  I    Cast  it  not 

away. 
Now   call  me  by  the    old  familiar 

names  : 
Call  me  again  your  Queen,  as  once 

you  used  ; 
You  large-eyed  Here  ! 

^GISTHUS. 

O,  you  are  a  Queen 
That  should  have  none  but  Gods  to 

rule  over  ! 
Make  me  immortal  with   one  costly 

kiss  ! 


VITT.  rHORUS.  ELECTRA.  CLY- 
TEMNESTRA.  ^GISTHUS. 

CHORUS. 

lo  I  lo  I    I  hear  the  people  shout. 


368 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


ELECTRA. 

Bee  how  these  two  do  mutually  con- 
fer, 

Hatching  new  infamy.  Now  will  he 
dare, 

In  his  unbounded  impudence,  to 
meet 

>Iy  father's  eyes  ?  The  hour  is  nigh 
at  hand. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  love,  be  bold  !  the  hour  is  nigh  at 
hand. 

ELECTRA. 

Laden  with  retribution,  lingering 
slow. 

^GISTHUS. 

A  time  in  travail  with  some  great 
distress. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Nay,   rather  safety  for  the  rest  of 

time. 
O  love  !  O  hate  I 

ELECTRA. 

O  vengeance  \ 

JEG^STHUS. 

O  wild  chance 
If  favoring  f ate— 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Despair  is  more  than  fate. 

CHORUS. 

lo  !  lo  !    The  King  is  on  his  march. 

.EGISTHUS. 

Did  you  hear  that  ? 

ELECTRA. 

The  hour  is  nigh  at  hand  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Leave  me  to  deal  with  these.   I  know 

the  arts 
That  guide  the  doubtful  purpose  of 

discourse 


Through  many  windings  to  the  ap- 
pointed goal. 

I'll  draw  them  on  to  such  a  frame  of 
mind 

As  best  befits  our  purpose.  You, 
meanwhile, 

Scatter  vague  words  among  the 
other  crowd, 

Least  the  event,  when  It  is  due,  fall 
foul 

Of  unpropitious  natures. 

^GISTHUS. 

Do  you  fear 
The  helpless,  blind  ill-will  of  such  a 
crowd  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

He  only  fears  mankind  who  knows 

them  not. 
But  him  I  praise  not  who  despises 

them. 
Whence  come,  Electra  ? 

ELECTRA. 

From  my  father's  hearth 
To  meet  him  ;  for  the  hour  is  nigh 
at  hand. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

So  do  our  hopes  race  hotly  to  one 

end, 
(A  noble  rivalry  !)  as  who  shall  first 
Embrace  this  happy  fortune.     Tarry 

not. 
We  too  will  follow. 

ELECTRA. 

Justice,  O  be  swift! 


IX.  CLYTEMNESTRA.    CHORUS. 
SEMI-CHORUS.     HERALD. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

A  fro  ward  child  !    She's  gone.     My 

blood's  in  her. 
Her  father's,  too,  looks  out  of  that 

proud  face. 
She  is  too  bold  .  .  .  ha,  well— iEgis- 

thus  ?  .  .  .  gone  I 


CLYTEMNESTkA. 


36^ 


0  fate  !  to  be  a  woman  !    You  great 

Gods, 
Why  did  you  fashion  me  in  this  soft 

mould  ? 
Give  me  tliese  lengths  of  silky  hair  ? 

These  hands 
Too  delicately  dimpled  !  and  these 

arms 
Too  white,  too  weak  !  yet  leave  the 

man's  heart  in  me, 
To  mar  your  masterpiece,  —  that  I 

should  perish. 
Who  else  had  won  renown  among  my 

peers, 
A  man,  with  men, — perchance  a  god 

with  you, 
Had  you  but  better  sexed  me,  you 

blind  Gods  ! 
But,  as  for  man,  all  things  are  fitting 

to  him. 
He  strikes  his  fellow  'mid  the  clang- 
ing shields, 
And  leaps  among  the  smoking  walls, 

and  takes 
Some  long-haired  virgin  wailing  at 

the  shrines, 
Her  brethren    having  fallen  ;    and 

you  Gods 
Commend  him,  crown  him,   grant 

him  ample  days. 
And   dying  honor,   and  an  endless 

peace 
Among  the  deep  Elysian  asphodels. 
O  fate,  to  be  a  woman  !    To  be  led 
Dumb,  like  a  poor  mule,  at  a  mas- 
ter's will, 
And  be  a  slave,  though  bred  in  pal- 
aces. 
And  be  a  fool,  though  seated  with 

the  wise, — 
A  poor  and  pitiful  fool,   as   I  am 

now, 
Loving    and    hating  my    vain    life 

away  ! 

CHOKUS. 

These  flowers — we  plucked  them 
At  morning,  and  took  them , 
From    bright    bees    that    sucked 
them 


And  warm  winds  that  shook  them 
'Neath    blue    hills    that    o'erlouk 
them. 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

AVith  the  dews  of  the  meadow 
Our  rosy  warm  fingers 
Sparkle  yet,  and  the  shadow 
Of  the  summer-cloud  lingers 
In  the  hair  of  us  singers. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Ere  these  buds  on  our  altars 
Fade  ;  ere  the  forkt  fire, 
Fed  with  pure  honey,  falters 
And  fails  :  louder,  higher 
Raise  the  Paean. 

SECOND  SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Draw  nigher. 
Stand  closer  !    First  praise  we 
The  Father  of  all. 
To  him  the  song  raise  we. 
Over  Heaven's  golden  wall 
Let  it  fall  !    Let  it  fall  ! 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Then  Apollo,  the  king  of 
The  lyre  and  the  bow  ; 
Who  taught  us  to  sing  of 
The  deeds  that  we  know, — 
Deeds  well  done  long  ago. 

SECOND  SEJn-CHORUS. 

Next,  of  all  the  Immortals, 
Athene's  gray  eyes  ; 
Who  sits  throned  in  our  portals, 
Ever  fair,  ever  wise. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Neither  dare  we  despise 
To  extol  the  great  Here, 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

And  then, 
As  is  due,  shall  our  song 
Be  of  those  among  men 
Who  were  bi-ave,  who  were  strong 
Who  endured. 


3^0 


CLYTEMNESTRA, 


FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Then,  the  wrong 
Of  the  Phrygian  ;  and  Ilion's  false 

sons  : 
And  Scamanders  wild  wave 
Through  the  bleak  plain  that  rims. 

SECOND  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Then,  the  death  of  the  brave. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Last,  of  whom  the  Gods  save 
For  new  honors  :  of  them  none 
So  good  or  so  great 
As  our  chief  Agamemnon 
The  crown  of  our  State. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  friends,  true  hearts,  rejoice  with 
me  !    This  day 

Shall  crown  the  hope  of  ten  uncer- 
tain years  ! 

CHORUS. 

For  Agamemnon  cannot  be  far  off — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

He  comes — and  yet — O  Heaven  pre- 
serve us  all  ! 

My  heart  is  weak — there's  One  he 
brings  not  back  ; 

Who  went  with  him  ;  who  will  not 
come  again  ; 

Whom  we  shall  never  see  ! — 

CJIORUS. 

O  Queen,  for  whom. 
Lamenting  thus,  is  your  great  heart 
cast  down  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

The  earliest  loved — the  early  lost  1 
my  child — 


CHORUS. 


Iphigenia  ? 


-Alas  \ 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

She— my  child- 

CHORUS. 

That  was  a  terrible  necessity  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Was  it  necessity  ?  O  pardon,  friends, 
But  in  the  dark,  unsolaced  solitude, 
Wild  thoughts  come  to  me,  and  per- 
plex my  heart. 
This,  which  you  call  a  dread  neces- 
sity. 
Was  it  a  murder  or  a  sacrifice  ? 


It  was  a  God  that  did  decree  the 
death. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

'Tis  through  the  heart  the  Gods  do 
speak  to  us. 

High  instincts  are  the  oracles  of 
heaven. 

Did  ever  heart, — did  ever  God,  be- 
fore. 

Suggest  such  foul  inf anticidal  lie  ? 


Be  comforted  !    The  universal  good 
Needed  this  single,  individual  loss. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Can  all  men's  good  be  helped  by  one 
man's  crime  ? 


He  loosed  the  Greeks  from  Aidis  by 
that  deed. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  casual  argument  !    Who  gave  the 

Greeks 
Such  bloody  claim  upon  a  virgin's 

life? 
Shall  the  pure  bleed  to  purge  impU' 

rity? 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


37^ 


A  hundred  Helens  were  not  worth  !  Took  his  blithe  pastime  on  the  windy 


that  death  ! 

What  !  had  the  manhood  of  com- 
bine'd  Greece, 

Whose  boast  was  in  its  untamed 
strength,  no  help 

Better  than  the  spilt  blood  of  one 
poor  girl  ? 

Or,  if  it  were  of  need  that  blood 
should  flow 

What  God  ordained  him  execution- 
er ? 

Was  it  for  him  the  armament  was 
planned  ? 

For  him  that  angry  Greece  was 
leagued  in  war  ? 

For  him,  or  Menelaus,  was  this  done? 

Was  the  cause  his,  or  Menelaus' 
cause  ? 

Was  he  less  sire  than  Menelaus  was? 

He,  too,  had  children  ;  did  he  mur- 
der them  ? 

O,  was  it  manlike  ?  was  it  human, 
even  ? 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas  !  it  was  an  evil  thing. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  friends,  if  any  one  among  you  all, 
If  any  be  a  mother,  bear  with  me  ! 
She  was  my  earliest  born,  my  best 

beloved. 
The  painful  labor  of  that  perilous 

birth 
That  gave  her  life  did   almost  take 

my  own. 
He  had  no  pain.     He  did  not  bring 

her  forth. 
How  should  he,  therefore,  love  her 

as  I  loved  ? 

cnoEUS. 

Ai !  ai  !  alas  !  Our  tears  run  down 
with  yours. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O,  who  shall  say  with  what  delicious 

tears, 
With    what    ineffable    tenderness, 

while  he 


plain, 
Among    the    ringing    camps,     and 

neighing  steeds, 
First  of  his    glad    compeers,  I  sat 

apart. 
Silent,  within  the  solitary  house  : 
Rocking  the  little  child   upon  my 

breast  ; 
And  soothed  its  soft  eyes  into  sleep 

with  song  ! 


Ai !    ai 


CHORUS. 

unhappy,   sad,  unchilded 


one  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Or,  when  I  taught,  from  inarticulate 

sounds. 
The  little,  lisping  lips,  to  breathe  his 

name. 
Now  they  will  never  breathe  that 

name  again  ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  for  Hades  has  not  any  hope, 
Since  Thracian  women  lopped  the 

tuneful  head 
Of  Orpheus,  and  Heracleus  is  no 

more. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Or,  spread  in  prayer,  the  helpless, 

infant  hands. 
That  they,   too,   might  invoke  the 

Gods  for  him. 
Alas,  who  now  invokes  the  Gods  for 

her  ? 
Unwedded,  hapless,  gone  to  glut  the 

womb 
Of  dark,  untimely  Orcus  I 


CHORUS. 


Ai !  alas  i 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I  would  have  died,  if  that  could  be, 

for  her  ! 
When  life  is  half-way  set  to  feeble 

eld, 


372 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


And  memory  more  than  hope,  and 

to  dim  eyes 
The  gorgeous  tapestry  of  existence 

shows 
Mothed,  fingered,  frayed,  and  bare, 

'twere  not  so  hard 
To  fling  away  this  ravelled  skein  of 

life, 
"Which  else,  a  little  later.  Fate  had 

cut. 
And  who  would  sorrow  for  the  o'er- 

blown  rose 
Sharp  winter  strews  about  its  own 

bleak  thorns  ? 
But,  cropped  before  the  time,  to  fall 

so  young  ! 
And  wither  in  the  gloomy  crown  of 

Dis  ! 
Never  to  look  upon  the  blessed  sun — 

CHORUS. 

Ai  !   ai  !   alinon  !   woe  is  me,    this' 

grief 
Strikes  pity  paralyzed.     All  words 

are  weak  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And  I  had  dreamed  such  splendid 

dreams  for  her  ! 
Who  would  not  so  for  Agamemnon's 

child  ? 
For  we  had  hoped  that  she,  too,  in 

her  time 
Would    be    the    mother    of   heroic 

men  ! 

CHORUS. 

There  rises  in  my  heart  an  awful 

fear, 
Lest  from  these  evils  darker  evils 

come  ; 
For  heaven  exacts,  for  wrong,  the 

uttermost  tear, 
And  death  hath  language  after  life 

is  dumb  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

It  works  !  it  works  ! 

CHORUS. 

Look,  some  one  comes  this  way. 


HERALD. 

O  Honor  of  the  House  of  Tantalus  ! 
The    king's    wheels    echo    in    the 
brazen  gates. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Our  heart  is  half-way  there,  to  wel- 
come him. 

How  looks  he?  Well?  And  all 
our  long-lost  friends — 

Their  faces  grow  before  me.  Lead 
the  way 

Where  we  may  meet  them  All  our 
haste  seems  slow. 

CHORUS. 

Would  that  he  brought  his  dead 
child  back  with  him  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Now  let  him  come.  The  mischief 
works  apace  ! 

X.    CHORUS. 

CHORUS. 

The  winds   were    lulled   in  Aulis  ; 

and  the  day, 
Down-sloped,  was    loitering  to  the 

lazy  west. 
There  was  no  motion  of  the  glassy 

bay. 
But    all    things    by  a    heavy  light 

opprest. 
Windless,  cut  off  from  the  destined 

way,— 
Dark  shrouds,  distinct  against  the 

lurid  lull, — 
Dark  ropes  hung  useless,  loose,  from  • 

mast  to  hull, — 
The  black  ships  lay  abreast. 
Not    any    cloud    would    cress    the] 

brooding  skies. 
The    distant    sea    boomed    faintly. 

Nothing  more. 
They  walked  about  upon  the  yelloijf  j 

shore  ; 


CL  YTEMNESTRA . 


373 


Or,  lying  listless,  huddled  groups 
supine, 

With  faces  turned  toward  the  flat 
sea-spine, 

They  planned  the  Phrygian  battle 
o'er  and  o'er  ; 

Till  each  grew  sullen,  and  would 
talk  no  more. 

But  sat,  dumb-dreaming.  Then 
would  some  one  rise, 

And  look  toward  the  hollow  hulls, 
with  haggard,  hopeless  eyes — 

Wild  eyes — and,  crowding  round, 
yet  wilder  eyes — 

And  gaping,  languid  lips  ; 

A.nd  everywhere  that  men  could  see, 

About  the  black,  black  ships. 

Was  nothing  but  the  deep-red  sea  ; 

The  deep-red  shore  ; 

The  deep-red  skies  ; 

The  deep-red  silence,  thick  with 
thirsty  sighs  ; 

And  daylight,  dying  slowly.  Noth- 
ing more. 

Th«  tall  masts  stood  upright  ; 

And  not  a  sail  above  the  burnished 
prores  ; 

The  languid  sea,  like  one  outwearied 
quite, 

Shrank,  dying  inward  into  hollow 
shores, 

And  breathless  harbors,  under  sandy 
bars ; 

And,  one  by  one,  down  tracts  of 
quivering  blue. 

The  singed  ancl  sultry  stars 

Looked  from  the  inmost  heaven, 
far,  faint,  and  few, 

While,  all  below,  the  sick  and  steam- 
ing brine 

The  spilled-out  sunset  did  incarna- 
dine. 

At  last  one  broke  the  silence  ;  and  a 

word 
Was  lisped  and  buzzed  about,  from 

mouth  to  mouth  ; 
Pale  faces  grew    more  pale  ;    wild 

whispers  stirred  ; 
And  men,  with  moody,  murmuring 

lips,  conferred 


In    ominous    tones,    from    shaggy 

beards  uncouth  : 
As  though  some  wind  had  broken 

from  the  blurred 
And  blazing  prison  of  the  stagnant 

drouth, 
And  stirred  the  salt  sea  in  the  stifled 

south. 
The  long-robed  priests  stood  round  ; 

and,  in  the  gloom. 
Under  black  brows,  their  bright  and 

greedy  eyes. 
Shone    deathfully  ;     there    was    a 

sound  of  sighs, 
Thick-sobbed  from  choking  throats 

among  the  crowd, 
That,    whispering,    gathered    close, 

with  dark  heads  bowed  ; 
But  no  man  lifted  up  his  voice  aloud. 
For  heavy  hung  o'er  all  the  helpless 

sense  of  doom. 

Then,  after  solemn  prayar, 

The  father  bade  the  attendants,  ten- 
derly 

Lift  her  upon  the  lurid  altar-stone. 

There  was  no  hope  in  any  face  ; 
each  eye 

Swam  tearful,  that  her  own  did  gaze 
upon. 

They  bound  her  helpless  hands  with 
mournful  care  ; 

And  looped  up  her  long  hair. 

That  hung  about  her,  like  an  amber 
shower. 

Mixed  with  the  saffron  robe,  and 
falling  lower, 

Down  from  her  bare  and  cold  white 
shoulder  flung. 

Upon  the  heaving  "breast  the  pale 
cheek  hung. 

Suffused  with  that  wild  light  that 
rolled  among 

The  pausing  crowd,  out  of  the  crim- 
son drouth. 

They  held  hot  hands  upon  her 
pleading  mouth  ; 

And  stifled  on  faint  lips  the  natural 
cry. 

Back  from  the  altar-stone. 

Slow-moving  in  his  fixed  place 


374 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


A  little  space, 

The   speechless  father  turned.     No 

word  was  said, 
He  wrapped  his  mantle  close  about 

his  face, 
In  his  dumb  grief,  without  a  moan. 
The  lopping  axe  was  lifted  overhead. 
Then,  suddenly, 
There  sounded  a  strange  motion  of 

the  sea. 
Booming  far  inland  ;  and  above  the 

east 
A  ragged  cloud  rose  slowly,  and  in- 
creased. 
Not  one   line  in  the  horoscope  of 

Time 
Is  perfect.     O,  what  falling  off  is 

this. 
When  some  grand  soul,  that  else  had 

been  sublime, 
Falls  unawares  amiss, 
And  stoops  its  crested  strength  to 

sudden  crime  ! 

So  gracious  a  thing  is  it,  and  sweet, 
In  life's  clear  centre  one  true  man  to' 

see. 
That  holds  strong  nature  in  a  wise 

control  ; 
Throbbing  out,  all  round,  the  heat 
Of  a  large  and  liberal  soul. 
No  shadow,  simulating  life, 
But  pulses  warm  with  human  nature, 
In  a  soul  of  godlike  stature  ; 
Heart  and  brain,  all  rich  and  rife 
With  noble  instincts  ;  strong  to  meet 
Time  calmly,  in  his  purposed  place. 
Sound  through  and  through,  and  all 

complete  ; 
Exalting  what  is  low  and  base  ; 
Enlarging  what  is  narrow  and  small ; 
He  stamps  his  character  on  all, 
And  with  his  grand  identity 
Fills  up  Creation's  eye. 
He  will  not  dream  the  aimless  years 

away 
In  blank  delay, 
But  makes  eternity  of  to-day, 
And  reaps  the  full-eared  time.     For 

him 
Nature  her  affluent  horn  doth  brim, 


To  strew  with  fruit  and  flowers  his 

way- 
Fruits  ripe  and  flowers  gay. 

The  clear  soul  in  his  earnest  eyes 
Looks    through     and    through    all 

plaited  lies. 
Time  shall  not  rob  him  of  his  youth, 
Nor  narrow  his  large  sympathies. 
He  is  not  true,  he  is  a  truth. 
And  such  a  truth  as  never  dies. 
Who    knows  his    nature,  feels  his 

right. 
And,  toiling,  toils  for  his  delight  ; 
Not  as  slaves  toil  :  where'er  he  goes, 
The  desert  blossoms  with  the  rose. 
He  trusts  himself  in  scorn  of  doubt, 
And  lets  orbed  purpose  widen  out. 
The  world  works  with  him  ;  all  men 

see 
Some  part  of  them  fulfilled  in  him  ; 
His  memory  never  slial?  c:row  dim  ; 
He  holds  the  heaven  ai.J  earth  in 

fee, 
Not  following  that,  fulfilling  this» 
He  is  immortal,  for  he  is  ! 

O  weep  !  weep  !  weep  ! 

Weep  for  the  young  that  die  ; 

As  it  were  pale  flowers  that  wither 

under 
The  smiting  sun,  and  fall  asunder, 
Before  the  dews  on  the  grass  are  dry. 
Or  the  tender  twilight  is  out  of  the 

sky. 
Or  the  lilies  have  fallen  asleep  ; 
Or  ships  by  a  wanton  wind  cut  short 
Are  wrecked  in  sight  of  the  placid 

port 
Sinking  strangely,  and  suddenly — 
Sadly,  and  strangely,  and  suddenly— 
Into  the  black  Plutonian  deep. 
O  weep  !  weep  !  weep  ! 
Weep,  and  bow  the  head, 
For  those  whose  sun  is  set  at  noon  ; 
Whose  night  is  dark,  without  a  moon; 
Whose  aim  of  life  is  sped 
Beyond  pursuing  wo«s. 
And  the  arrow  of  angry  foes. 
To  the  darkness  that  no  man  knows — 
The  darkness  among  the  dead. 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


375 


Let  us  mourn,  and  bow  the  head, 

And  lift  up  the  voice,  and  weep 

For  the  early  dead  ! 

For  the  early  dead  we  may  bow  the 
head, 

And  strike  the  breast,  and  weep  ; 

But,  O,  what  shall  be  said 

For  the  living  sorrow  ? 

Fur  the  living  sorrow  our  grief — 

Dumb  grief— draws  no  relief 

From  tears,  nor  yet  may  borrow 

Solace  from  sound  or  speech  ; — 

For  the  living  sorrow 

That  heaps  to-moirjw  upon  to-mor- 
row 

In  piled-up  pain,  beyond  Hope's 
reach  ! 

It  is  well  that  we  mourn  for  the  early 
dead, 

Strike  the  breast,  and  bow  the  head ; 

For  the  sorrow  for  these  may  be  sung, 
or  said, 

And  the  chaplets  be  woven  for  the 
fallen  head, 

And  the  urns  to  the  stately  tombs  be 
led. 

And  Love  from  their  memory  may 
be  fed, 

And  song  may  ennoble  the  anguish  ; 

But,  O,  for  the  living  sorrow, — 

For  the  living  sorrow  what  hopes  re- 
main ? 

For  the  prisoned,  pining,  passionate 
pain. 

That  is  doomed  forever  to  languish, 

And  to  languish  forever  in  vain. 

For  the  want  of  the  words  that  may 
bestead 

The  hunger  that  out  of  loss  is  bred. 

O  friends,  for  the  living  sorrow — 

For  the  living  sorrow — 

For  the  living  sorrow  what  shall  be 
said? 

XI.    A    PHOCIAN.     CHORUS. 
SEMI-CHORUS. 


O  noble  strangers,  if  indeed  you  be 
Such  as  you  seem,  of  Argos,  and  the 
laud 


That  the  unconquer'd  Agamemnon 

rules, 
Tell  me  is  this  the  palace,  these  the 

roofs 
Of    the  Atridse,  famed  in  ancient 

song? 

CHORUS. 

Not  without  truth    you    name  the 

neighborhood. 
Standing  before  the  threshold,  and 

the  doors 
Of  Pelops,  and  upon  the  Argive  soil. 
That  which  you  see  above  the  Agora 
Is  the  old  fane  of  the  Lycasan  God. 
And  this  the  house  of  Agamemuon's 

queen. 
But  whence  art  thou?    For  if  thy 

dusty  locks. 
And  those  soiled  sandals  show  with 

aught  of  truth. 
Thou  shouldst  be  come  from  far. 

PHOCIAN. 

And  am  so,  friends, 
But,  by  Heaven's  favor,  here  my 
journey  ends. 

CHORUS. 

Wlience,  then,  thy  way  ? 

PHOCIAN. 

From  Phocis  ;  charged  with  gifts 
For  Agamemnon,  and  with  messages 
From  Strophius,  and  the  sister  of 

your  king. 
Our  watchmen  saw  the  beacon  on 

the  hills. 
And  leaded  for  joy.     Say,  is  the  king 

yet  come  ? 

CHORUS. 

He  comes  this  way  ;  stand  by,  I  hear 

them  shout  ; 
Here  shall    you    meet  him,   as  he 

mounts  the  hill. 

PHOCIAN. 

Now  blest  be  all  the  Gods,  from 
Father  Zeus, 


376 


Cl  YTEMNESTRA. 


Who    reigns    o'er  windy  CEta,   far 

away, 
To   King  Apollo,   with  the  golden 

horns. 

CHORUS. 

Look  how  they  cling  about  him  ! 
Far  and  near 

The  town  breaks  loose,  and  follows 
after, 

Crowding  up  the  ringing  ways. 

The  boy  forgets  to  watch  the  steer  ; 

The  grazing  steer  forgets  to  graze  ; 

The  shepherd  leaves  the  herd  ; 

The  priest  will  leave  the  fane  ; 

The  deep  heart  of  the  land  is  stirred 

To  sunny  tears,  and  tearful  laughter. 

To  look  into  his  face  again. 

Burst,  burst  tke  brazen  gates  ! 

Throw  open  the  hearths,  and  follow! 

Let  the  shouts  of  the  youths  go  up 
to  Apollo, 

Lord  of  the  graceful  quiver  : 

Till  the  tingling  sky  dilates — 

Dilates,  and  palpitates  ; 

And,  Paean  Pasan  !  the  virgins 
sing; 

Pfean  !  Psean  !  the  king  !  the  king  ! 

Laden  with  spoils  from  Phrygia  ! 

lo  !  lo  !  lo  !  they  sing 

Till  the  pillars  of  Olympus  ring  : 

lo  !  to  Queen  Ortygia, 

Whose  double  torch  shall  burn  for- 
ever? 

But  thou,  O  Lord  of  the  graceful 
quiver. 

Bid,  bid  thy  Pythian  splendor  halt, 

Where'er  he  beams,  surpassing  sight; 

Or  on  some  ocean  isthmus  bent. 

Or  wheeled  from  the  dark  continent. 

Half-way  down  Heaven's  rosy  vault, 

Toward  the  dewy  cone  of  night. 

Let  not  the  breathless  air  grow  dim, 

Until  the  whole  land  look  at  him  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Stand  back  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Will  he  come  this  way  ? 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

No  ;  by  us. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Gods,  what  a  crowd  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

How  firm  the  old  men  walk! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

There  goes  the  king.  I  know  him 
by  his  beard. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

And  I,  too,  by  the  manner  of  his 

gait. 
That  Godlike  spirit  lifts  him  from 

the  earth. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

How  gray  he  looks  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

His  cheek  is  seamed  with  scars. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  a  bull's  front ! 

SSMI-CHORUS. 

He  stands  up  like  a  tower. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Ay,  like  some  moving  tower  of 
arme'd  men, 

That  carries  conquest  under  city- 
walls. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

He  lifts  his  sublime  head,  and  in  his 

port 
Bears  eminent  authority. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Behold, 
His  spear  shows  like  the  spindle  of  a 
Fate  I 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


377 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

O,  what  an  arm  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Most  fit  for  such  a  sword  ; 
Look  at  that  sword. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  shoulders  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  a  throat  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  are  these  bearing  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Urns. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Alas  1  alas  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

O  friends,  look  here  !    how  are  the 

mighty  men 
Shrunk  up  into  a  little  vase  of  earth, 
A  child  might  lift.      Sheathed  each 

in  brazen  plates, 
rhey  went    so    heavy,  they    come 

back  so  light. 
Sheathed,  each  one,  in  the  brazen 

urn  of  death  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

With  what  a  stateliness  he  moves 
along  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

See,  how  they  touch  his  skirt,  and 
grasp  his  hand  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Is  thai  the  queen  ? 


SEMI-CHORUSc 

Ay,  how  she  matches  him  I 
With  what  grand  eyes  she  looks  up, 
full  in  his  ! 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

Say,  what  are  these  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

O  Phrygians  !  how  they  -.valkl 
The  only  sad  man  in  the  crowd,  I 
think. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

But  who    is  this,  that  with    such 

scornful  brows. 
And  looks  averted,  walks  among  the 

rest? 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

I  know  not,  but  some  Phrygian  wo- 
man, sure. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Her    heavy-fallen    hair    down    her 

while  neck 
(A  dying  sunbeam  tangled  in  each 

tress) 
All  its  neglected  beauty   pours  one 

way. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Her  looks  bend  ever  on  the  alien 

ground, 
As  though  the  stones  of  Troy  were 

in  her  path. 
And  in  the  paine'd  paleness  of  her 

brow 
Sorrow  hath  made  a  regal  tenement. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Here  comes  Electra  ;  young  Orestes, 

too  ; 
See    how  he  emulates  his   father's 

stride  ! 


378 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Look  at  JEgistlius,  where  he  walks 

apart, 
And  bites  his  lip. 

SEMI-CHOBUS. 

I  oft  have  seen  him  so 
When  something  chafes  him  in  his 
bitter  moods. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Peace,  here  they  come  ! 

CHORUS. 

lo  !  lo  !    The  King  ! 


XII.  AGAMEMNON,  CLYTEM- 
NESTRA, iEGISTHUS,  ELEC- 
TRA,  ORESTES,  CASSANDRA, 
a  Phocian,  Chorus,  Semi-Chorus, 
and  others  in  the  procession. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  blazing  snn,  that  in  tliy  skyey 
tower, 

Pausest  to  see  one  kingly  as  thy- 
self, 

Lend  all  thy  brighest  beams  to  light 
his  head. 

And  guide  our  gladness  !  Friends, 
behold  the  King  ! 

Nor  hath  ^tolian  Jove,  the  arbiter 

Of  conquests,  well  disposed  the  issues 
here  ; 

For  every  night  that  brought  not 
news  fiom  Troy 

Heaped  fear  on  fear,  as  waves  suc- 
ceed to  waves, 

"When  Northern  blasts  blow  white 
the  Cretan  main, — 

Knowing  that  thou,  far  off,  from 
toil  to  toil 

Climbedst,  uncertain.  Unto  such  an 
one 

His  children,  and  young  offspring 
of  the  house 


Are  as   a  field,  which  he,  the   hus- 
bandman . 
Owning  far  off  does  only  look  upon 
At    seedtime    once,   nor    then   till 

harvest  comes  ; 
And  his   sad   wife  must  wet    witii 

nightly  tears 
Unsolaced  pillows,   fearing  for  his 

fate. 
To  these  how  welcome,  then,  his  glad 

return, 
When  he,  as  thou,  comes  heavy  witli 

the  weight 
Of  great  achievements,  and  the  spoils 

of  time. 

AGAMEMNON. 

Enough  !  enough  !  we  weigh  you  r.t 

full  worth. 
And  hold  you  dear,  whose  gladness 

equals  yours  ; 
But  women  ever  err  by  over-talk. 
Silence  to  women,  as   the  beard   to 

men. 
Brings  honor  ;    and  plain   truth  is 

hurt,  not  helped 
By    many    words.      To     each    his 

separate  sphere 
The  Gods  allot.     To  me  the  sound- 
ing camp. 
Steeds,  and  the  oaken  spear  ;  to  j'-ou 

the  hearth. 
Children,  and  household  duties    of 

the  loom. 
'Tis  man's    to  win    an    honorable 

name  ; 
Woman's  to  keep  it  honorable  still. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

(O  beast  !  O  weakness  of  this  wo- 
manhood ! 

To  let  these  pompous  male  things 
strut  in  our  eyes, 

And  in  their  lordship  lap  themselves 
secure. 

Because  the  lots  in  life  are  fallen  to 
them. 

Am  I  less  heart  and  head,  less  blood 
and  brain, 

Less  force  and  feelicig,  pulse  and 
passion— I— 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


379 


Than  this  self-worshipper — a  lie  all 

through  ?) 
Forgive  if  joy  too  long  unloose  our 

lips, 
Silent  so  long  :  your  words  fall  on  | 

my  soul  ! 

As  rain  on  thirsty  lands,  that   feeds  i 

the  dearth  i 

"With    blessed      nourishment.      My  j 

whole  heart  hears.  ; 

You    speaking    thus,   I    would   be  \ 

silent  ever. 

AGAMEMXON. 

Who  is  this  man  ? 

CLYTEMXESTRA. 

A  Phocian,  by  his  look. 

PHOCIAX. 

O  King,  from  Strophius,  and  your 

sister's  court, 
Despatched  with  this  sealed  tablet, 

and  with  gifts, 
ThougJi  both  express,  so  says  my 

royal  Head, 
But  poorly  the  rich  welcome  they 

intend. 
"Will  you  see  this  ? — and  these  ? 

AGAMEMXOX. 

Anon  !  anon  ! 
"We'll  look  at  them  within.     O  child, 

thine  eyes 
Look  warmer  welcome  than  all  words 

express. 
Thou  art  mine  own   child  by  that 

royal  brow. 
Nature  hath  marked  thee  mine. 


ELECTRA. 


In  the  son's  hands  hath  hewn  out 

nobler  fame." 
Think  of  it,  little  one  !  where  is  our 

cousin  ? 

^GISTHUS. 

Here  !  And  the  keys  of  the 
Acropolis  ? 

AGAMEMXOX. 

0  well  !  this  dust  and  heat  are  over- 

much. 
And,  cousin,  you  look  pale.     Anon  ! 

anon  ! 
Speak  to  us  by  and  by.     Let  business 

wait. 
Is  our  house  ordered  ?  we  will  take 

the  bath. 

CLYTEMXESTRA. 

"Will  you  within  ?  where  all  is  ordered 
fair 

Befitting  state  :  cool  chambers, 
marble-floored 

Or  piled  with  blazing  carpets,  scented 
rare 

With  the  sweet  spirit  of  each  odor- 
ous gum 

In  dim,  delicious,  amorous  mists 
about 

The  purple-paven,  silver-sided  bath, 

Deep,  flashing,  pure. 

AGAMEMXOX. 

Look  to  our  captives  then. 

1  charge  you  chiefly  with  this  woman 

here, 
Cassandra,   the  mad  prophetess  of 

Troy. 
See  that  you  chafe  her  not  in  her 

wild  moods. 


O  Father  ! 


AGAMEMNON. 

Come  ! 
And   our   Orestes !      He   is   nobly 

grown  ; 
He  shall  do  great  deeds  when  our 

own  are  dim. 
So    shall  men  come    to  say  "the 

father's  sword 


XIII.   CLYTEMNESTRA.    ^GIS- 
THUS. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Linger  not ! 

JEGISTHUS. 

What  ?  you  will  to-day— 


38o 


CL  YTEMNES  TRA. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

— This  hour. 

^GISTHTJS. 

O,  if  some  chance  mar  all  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

We'll  make  chance  sure. 
Doubt  is  the  doomsman  of  self-judged 

disgrace  : 
But  every  chance  brings   safety  to 

self-help. 

^GISTHUS. 

Ay,  but  the  means — the  time — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

—Fulfil  themselves. 
O  most  irresolute  heart  !  is  this   a 

time 
When  through  the  awful  pause  of 

life,  distinct. 
The  sounding  shears  of  Fate  slope 

near,  to  stand 
Meek,  like  tame    wethers,  and  be 

shorn  ?     How  say  you, 
The  blithe  wind  up,  and  the  broad 

sea  before  him, 
Who  would  crouch  all  day  long  be- 
side the  mast 
Counting  the  surges  beat  his  idle 

helm. 
Because  between  him  and  the  golden 

isles 
The  shadow  of  a  passing  storm  might 

hang? 
Danger,  being  pregnant,  doth  beget 

resolve. 

^GISTHUS. 

Thou  wert  not  born  to  fail.     Give 
me  thy  hand. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Take  it. 


^GISTHUS. 

It  does  not  tremble. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  be  strong  I 
The  future  hangs  upon  the  die  we 

cast  : 
Fortune  plays  high  for  us — 

^GISTHUS. 

Gods  grant  she  win. 


XIY.   CHORUS.    SEMI-CHORUS 
CASSANDRA. 

CHORUS. 

O  thou  that  dost  with  globe'd  glory 
Sweep  the  dark  world  at  noon  of 

night, 
Or  among  snowy  summits,  wild  and 

hoary, 
Or  through  the  mighty  silences 
Of  immemorial  seas. 
With  all  the  stars  behind  thee  flying 

white, 
O  take  with  thee,  where'er 
Thou  wanderest,  ancient  Care, 
And  hide    her  in  some  interlunar 

haunt  ; 
Where  but  the  wild  bird's  chaunt 
At  night,  through  rocky  ridges  gaunt, 
Or  moanings  of  some  homeless  sea 

may  find  her 
There,  Goddess,  bar,  and  bind  her  ; 
Where  she  may  pine,  but  wander  not; 
Loathe  her  haunts,  but  leave  them 

not ; 
Wail  and  rave  to  the  wind  and  wave 
That  hear,  yet  understand  her  not ; 
And  curse  her    chains,   yet  cleave 

them  not  ; 
And  hate  her  lot,  yet  help  it  not. 
Or  let  her  rove  with  Gods  undone 
Who  dwell  below  the  setting  sun, 
And  the  sad  western  hours 
That  burn  in  fiery  bowers  ; 
Or  in  Amphitrite's  grot 
Where  the  vexed  tides  unite. 
And  the  spent  wind,  howling,  breaks 
O'er  sullen  oceans  out  of  sight 
Among  sea-snakes,  that  the   white 

moon  wakes 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


'.>Si 


Till    they    shake    themselves    into 

diamond  flakes, 
Coil  and  twine  in  the  glittering  brine 
And  swing  themselves  in  the  long 

moonshine  ; 
Or  by  wild  shores  hoarsely  rage, 
And  moan,  and  vent  her  spite, 
In  some  inhospitable  harborage 
Qf  Thracian  waters,  white. 
There  let  her  grieve,  and  grieve,  and 

hold  her  breath 
Until  she  hate  herself  to  death. 
I  seem  with  rapture  lifted  higher, 
Like  one  in  mystic  trance. 
O  Pan  !  Pan  !  Pan  ! 
First  friend  of  man, 
And  founder  of  Heaven's  choir. 
Come  thou  from  old  Cyllene,  and  in- 
spire 
The  Gnossian,  and  Nyssean  dance  ! 
Come  thou,  too,  Delian  king, 
From  the  blue  ^gean  sea. 
And  Mycone's  yellow  coast  : 
Give  my  spirit  such  a  wing 
As  there  the  foolish  Icarus  lost, 
That  she  may  soar  above  the  cope 
Of  this  high  pinnacle  of  gladness, 
And  dizzy  height  of  hope  ; 
And  there,  beyond  all  reach  of  sad- 
ness. 
May  tune  my  lips  to  sing 
Great  Paeans,  full  and  free, 
Till  the  whole  world  ring 
With  such  heart-melting  madness 
As  bards  are  taught  by  thee  ! 

SEMI-CHpRUS. 

Look  to  the  sad  Cassandra,  how  she 
stands  ! 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

She  turns  not  from  the  wringing  of 
her  hands. 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  is  she  doing  ? 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

Look,  her  lips  are  moved. 


SEMI-CHOKUS. 

And  yet  their  motion  shapes  not  any 
sound. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Speak  to  her. 

SEIVn-CHORUS. 

She  will  heed  not. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

But  yet  speak. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Unhappy  woman,  cease  a  little  while 
From     mourning.       Recognize    the 

work  of  Heaven. 
Troy  smoulders.     Think  not  of  it 

Let  the  past 
B2  buried  in  the  past.      Tears  mend 

it  not. 
Fate  may  be  kindlier  yet  than  she 

appears. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

She  does  not  answer. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Call  to  her  again. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

O  break  this  scornful  silence !    Hear 

us  speak. 
We  would  console  you. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Look,  how  she  is  moved  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

O  speak  !    the  heart's  hurt  oft    is 
helped  by  words. 

CASSANDRA. 

0  Itys  !  Itys  !  Itys  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  a  shriek  I 
She  takes  the  language  of  the  night- 
ingale, 


:^82 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


Unhappy    bird  !    that    mourns   her 

perished  form, 
A^nd  leans  her  breast  against  a  thorn, 

all  night. 

CASSANDRA. 

The  bull  is  in  the  shambles. 

SEMI-CHOEUS. 

Listen,  friends  ! 
She  mutters  something  to  herself. 

CASSANDRA. 

Alas! 
Did  any  name  Apollo  ?  woe  is  me  ! 

SEMI- CHORUS. 

She  calls  upon  the  God. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Unhappy  one. 
What  sorrow  strikes  thee  with  be- 
wilderment '? 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Now  she  is  mute  again. 

CHORUS. 

A  Stygian  cold 
Creeps     through     my    limbs,     and 

loosens  every  joint. 
The  hot  blood  freezes  in  its  arteries, 
And  stagnates  round  the  region  of 

the  heart. 
A  cloud  comes  up  from  sooty  Ache- 
ron, 
And  clothes  mine  eyelids 
Witii  infernal  night. 
My  hair  stands  up. 
What  supernatural  awe 
Shoots,  shrivelling  through  me. 
To  the  marrow  and  bone  ? 
O  dread  and  wise  Prophetic  Powers, 
Whose  strong-compelling  law 
Doth  hold  in  awe 
The  laboring  hours, 
Your  intervention  I  iuvqke, 


My    soul  from  this   wild  doubt  to 

save  ; 
Whether  you  have 
Your  dwelling  in  some  dark,  oracu- 
lar cave. 
Or  solemn,  sacred  oak  ; 
Or    in    Dodona's  ancient,   honored 

beech, 
Whose  mystic  boughs  above 
Sat  the  wise  dove  ; 
Or  if  the  tuneful  voice  of  old 
Awake  in  Delos,  to  unfold 
Dark  wisdom  in  ambiguous  speech. 
Upon  the  verge  of  strange  despair 
My  heart  grows  dizzy.     Now  I  seem 
Like  one  that  dreams  some  ghastly 

dream. 
And  cannot  cast  aw^ay  his  care, 
But  harrows  all  the  haggard  air 
With  his  hard  breath.  .  Above,  be- 
neath. 
The  empty  silence  seems  to  team 
With  apprehension.     O  declare 
What  hidden  thing  doth  Fate  pre- 
pare, 
What  hidden,  horrible  thing   doth 

Fate  prepare  ? 
For  of  some  hidden  grief  my  heart 
seems  half  aware. 


Xy.     CLYTEMNESTRA.      CAS- 
SANDRA.    CHORUS. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

One  blow  makes  all  sure.     Ay,  but 

then,— beyond  ? 
!  I    cannot    trammel  up    tlie    future 
I  thus. 

And  so  forecast  the  time,  as  with 

one  blow 
To  break  the  hundred  Hydra-heads 

of  Chance. 
Beyond — beyond  I  dare  not  look,  for 

who. 
If  first  he  scanned  the  space,  would 

leap  the  gulf  ? 
One  blow  secures  the  moment.    O., 

but  he  .  . 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


3^3 


Ay,  there  it  lies  !    I  dread  lest  my 

love,  being 
So  much  the  stronger,  sca)-e  bis  own 

to  death  ; 
As  what  they   comprehended  not, 

men  abhor. 
He  has  a  wavering  nature,  easily 
Unpoised  ;    and    trembling  ever  on 

extremes. 
O,  what  if  terror  outweigli  love,  and 

love, 
Having  defiled  his  countenance,  take 

part 


Perchance,  if  I  dared  question  this 

dark  heart, 
'Tis  not  for  him,  but  for  myself  in 

him, 
For  that  which  is  my  softer  self  in 

him, — 
I  have  done    this,   and   this, — and 

shall  do  more  : 
Hoped,  wept,  dared  wildly,  and  will 

overcome  ! 
Does  he  not  need  me  ?    It  is  sweet 

to  think 
That  I  am  all  to  him,  whate'er  I  be 


Against     himself,     self-loathed,     a    To   others  ;    and  to    one,— little,   I 


fallen  God  ? 


know  ! 


Ah,   his  was  never  yet  the  loving  \  But    to    him,    all    things, — sceptre. 


soul, 

But  rather  that  which  lets  itself  be 
loved  : 


sword,  and  crown. 
For  who  would  live,  but  to  be  loved 
by  some  one  ^ 


As   some    loose    lily  leans  upon   a  i  Be  fair,  but  to  give  beauty  to  an 


lake. 
Letting  thie  lymi)li  reflect  it,  as  it 

will, 
Still  idly  swayed,  whicliever  way  the 

stream 
Stirs  the  green  tangles  of  the  water 

moss. 
The  flov.er  of  his  love  never  bloomed 

upright, 
But  a  sweet  parasite,  that  loved  to 

lean 
On      stronger      natures,      winning 

strength  from  them, — 
Mot  such  a  flower  as  whose  delirious 

cup 
Maddens  the  bee,  and  never  can  give 

forth 
Enough   of    fragrance,  yet  is   ever 

sweet. 
Yet  which  is  sweetest, — to  receive  or 

give  ? 
Sweet  to  receive,  and  sweet  to  give, 

in  love  ! 
When   one  is  never  sated  that  re- 
ceives, 
Nor    ever  all  exhausted    one    that 

gives. 
I  think  I  love  him  more,  that  I  re- 
semble 
So  little  aught  that  pleases  me   in 

him. 


other  ? 
Or  wise,  but  to  instruct  some  sweet 

desire  ? 
Or  strong,  but  that  thereby  love  may 

rejoice  ! 
Or  who  for  crime's  sake  would  be 

criminal  ? 
And  yet  for  love's  sake  would  not 

dare  v/ild  deeds  ? 
A  mutual  necessity,  one  fear, 
One  hope,  and  the  strange  posture  of 

the  time 
Unite  us  now  ; — but  this  need  over- 
past, 
O,  if,  'twixt  his  embrace  and  mine, 

there  rise 
The  reflex  of  a  murdered  head  !  and 

he. 
Remembering  the  crime,  remember 

not 
It  was  for  him  that  I  am  criminal, 
But  rather  hate  me  for  the  part  he 

took — 
Against  his  soul,  as  he  will  say — in 

this  ?— 
I  will  not  think  it.      Upon  this  wild 

venture. 
Freighted  with  love's  last  wealthiest 

merchandise, 
My  heart  sets  forth.     To-morrow  1 

shall  wake 


384 


CL  YTEMNESTRA, 


A  beggar,  as  it  may  be,  or  thrice 

rich. 
As  one  who  plucks  his  last  gem  from 

his  crown 
(Some  pearl  for  which,  in  youth,  he 

bartered  states) 
And,    sacrificing    with    an  anxious 

heart, 
Toward  night  puts  seaward  in  a  little 

bark 
For  lands  reported  far  beyond  the 

sun, 
Trusting  to  win  back  kingdoms,  or 

there  drown — 
So  I — and  with  like    perilous    en- 
deavor ! 
O,  but  I  think  I  could  implore  the 

Gods 
More    fervently  than    ever,   in  my 

youth, 
1    prayed  that    help  of    Heaven  I 

needed  not. 
And  lifted  innocent  hands  to  their 

great  sky. 
So  much  to  loose  ...  so  much  to 

gain  ...  so  much  .  .  . 
I  dare  not  think  how  .  .  . 

Ha,  the  Phrygian  slave  ! 
He  dares  to  bring  his  mistress  to  the 

hearth  ! 
She  looks  unhappy.     I  will  speak  to 

her. 
Perchance  her  hatred  may  approve 

my  own, 
And    help    me  in  the  work  I  am 

about. 
'Twere  well  to  sound  het. 

Be  not  so  cast  down, 
Unhappy  stranger !    Fear  no  jealous 

hand. 
In  sorrow  I,  too,  am  not  all  untried. 
Our  fortunes  are  not  so  dissimilar, 
Slaves  both — and  of  one  master. 

Nay,  approach. 
Is  my  voice  harsh  in  its  appeal  to 

thee? 
If  so,  believe  me,  it  belies  my  heart. 
A  woman  speaks  to  thee. 

What,  silent  still  ? 
O,  look  not  on  me  with  such  sullen 

eyes, 


There  is  no  accusation  in  my  own= 
Rather  on  him  that  brought   thee, 

than  on  thee, 
Our  scorn  is  settled.     I  would  help 

thee.     Come  ! 
Mute  still  ? 

I  know  that  shame  is  ever  dumb, 
And  ever  weak  ;  but  here  is  no  re- 
proach. 
Listen  !    Thy  fate  is  given  to  thy 

hands. 
Art  thou  a  woman,  and  dost  scorn 

contempt  ? 
Art  thou  a  captive,  and  dost  loathe 

these  bonds  ? 
Art  thou   courageous,  as  men  call 

thy  race  ? 
Or,   helpless   art  thou,  and  wouldst 

overcome  ? 
If  so, — look  up  !    For  there  is  hopo 

for  thee. 
Give  me  thy  hand — 

CASSANDRA. 

Pah  !  there  is  blood  on  it  1 

CLYTEMXESTRA. 

What  is  she  raving  of  ? 

CASSANDRA. 

The  place,  from  old, 


Is  evil. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Ay,  there  is  a  sickness,  here, 
That  needs  the  knife. 

CASSANDRA. 

O,  horrible  !  blood  !  blood  \ 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I  see  you   are  a   Phrygian  to  the 

bone  ! 
Coward  and  slave  !  be  so  forever- 


more  ! 


CASSANDRA. 


Apollo!  O  Apollo  !    O  blood  !  bloodl 
The  whole    place    swims   with  it ! 
The  slippery  steps 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


385 


Steam  with  the  fumes  !    The  rank 
air  smells  of  blood  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Heed  her  not  !   for  she  knows  not 

what  she  saj'S. 
This  is  some  falling  sickness  of  the 

soul. 
Her  fever  frights  itself. 

CASSANDRA. 

It  reeks  !  it  reeks  ! 
I*;  smokes  !  it  stifles  !  blood  !  blood, 
everywhere  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

See,    he    hath    brought    this    mad 

woman  from  Troy, 
To  shame  our  honor,  and  insult  our 

care. 
Look  to  her,  friends,  my  hands  have 

other  work  ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !    the    House    of    Tantalus    is 
doomed  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

The    King  sleeps — like    an    infant. 

His  huge  strength 
Holds  slumber  thrice    as  close    as 

other  men. 
How  well  he  sleeps  !    Make  garlands 

for  the  Gods. 
I  go  to  watch  the  couch.    Cull  every 

flower, 
And  honor  all  the  tutelary  fanes 
With  sacrifice  as  ample  as  our  joy. 
Lest  some  one  say  we  reverence  not 

the  Gods  I 

CHORUS. 

O  doomed  House  and  race  ! 

O  toilsome,  toilsome  horsemanship 

Of  Pelops  ;  that  ill  omen  brought 

to  us  ! 
For  since  the  drowmed  Myrtilus 
Did  from  his  golden  chariot  slip 


To  his  last  sleep,  below  the  deep, 
Nothing  of  sad  calamitous  disgrace 
Hath  angry  Heaven  ceased  to  lieap 
On  this   unhappy  House    of    Tan- 
talus. 
Not  only  upon  sacred  leaves  of  old. 
Preserved  in  many  a  guarded,  mys- 
tic fold. 
But  sometimes,  too,  enrolled 
On  tablets  fair 
Of  stone  or  brass,  with  quaint  and 

curious  care, 
In  characters  of  gold, 
And  many   an    iron-bound,  melan- 
choly book. 
The  wisdom  of  the  wise  is  writ ; 
And  hardly  shall  a  man. 
For  all  he  can. 
By  painful,  slow  degrees. 
And  nightly  reveries, 
Of    long,   laborious    thought,   grow 

learned  in  these. 
But  who,  that  reads  a  woman's  wily 

look, 
Shall  say  what  evil  hides,  and  lurks 

in  it? 
Or  fathom  her  false  wit  ? 
For  by  a  woman  fell  the  man 
Who  did  Nemaea's  pest  destroy. 
And  the  brinded  Hydra  slew. 
And  many  other  wonders  wrought. 
By  a  woman,  fated  Troy 
Was  overset,  and  fell  to  naught. 
Royal  Amphiaraus,  too. 
All  his  wisdom  could  not  free 
From  his  false  Eriphyle, 
Whom  a  golden  necklace  bought, — 
So  has  it  been,  and  so  shall  it  be, 
Ever  since  the  world  began  ! 

O  woman,   w^oman,  of  what  other 

earth 
Hath  dsedal  Nature  moulded  thee  ? 
Thou  art  not  of  our  clay  compact. 
Not  of  our  common  clay  ; — 
But  when  the  painful  world  in  labor 

lay- 
Ijabor  long — and  agony. 
In  her  heaving  throes  distract. 
And  vext  with  angry  Heaven's  red 

ire. 


386 


CL  VTEMNESTRA. 


Nature,  kneading  snow  and  fire, 
III  thy  mystic  being  pent 
Each  contrary  element. 
Life  and  deatli  within  thee  blent  : 
All  despair  and  all  desire  ; 
There  to  mingle  and  ferment. 
Wliile,  mad  midwives,  at  thy  birth, 
Fmies  mixt  with  Sirens  bent, 
Inter-wreathing  snakes  and  smiles, — 
Fairest  (dreams  and  falsest  guiles. 

Such  a  splendid  mischief  thou  ! 
With  thy  light  of  languid  eyes  ; 
And  thy  bosom  of  pure  snow  : 
And  thine  heart  of  fire  below, 
Whose  red  light  doth  come  and  go 
Ever  o'er  thy  changeful  cheek 
When  love-whispers  tremble  w^eak  : 
The  warm  lips  and  pensive  sighs. 
That  the  breathless  spirit  bow  : 
And  the  heavenward  life  that  lies 
In  the  still  serenities 
Of  thy  snowy,  airy  brow, — 
Thine  ethereal  airy  brow. 
Such  a  splendid  mischief,  thou  ! 
What  are  all  thy  witcheries  ? 
All  thine  evil  beauty  ?    All 
Thy  soft  looks,  and  subtle  smiles  ? 
Tangled  tresses  ?    Mad  caresses  ? 
Tenderness  ?    Tears  and  kisses  ? 
And  the  long  look,  between  whiles, 
That  the  helpless  heart  beguiles, 
Tranced  in  such  a  subtle  thrall  ? 
What  are  all  thy  sighs  and  smiles  ? 
Fairest  dreams  and" falsest  guiles  ! 
Hoofs  to  horses,  teeth  to  lions, 
Horns  to  bulls,  and  speed  to  hares, 
To  the  fish  to  glide  though  waters. 
To  the  bird  to  glide  through  airs, 
Nature  gave  :  to  men  gave  courage, 
And  the  use  of  brazen  spears. 
What  was  left  to  give  to  woman. 
All    her    gifts   thus    given  ?      Ah, 

tears. 
Smiles,      and      kisses,       whispers, 

glances, 
Only  these  ;  and  merely  beauty 
On  her  arche'd  brows  unfurled. 
And  with  these  she  shatters  lances, 
All  unarmed  binds  armed  Duty, 
And  in  triumph  drags  the  world  I 


XYI.  SEMI-CHORUS.  CHOEUS. 
CASSANDRA.  AGAMEMNON. 
CLYTEMNESTRA.  ^GIS 

THUS. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Break  off,   break  off  !    It  seems  i 
heard  a  cry. 

CHOEUS. 

Surely  one  called  within  tlie  house. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Stand  by. 

CHORUS. 

The  Prophetess  is  troubled.     Look, 

her  eye 
Rolls  fearfully. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Now  all  is  husht  once  more. 

CHORUS. 

I  hear  the  feet  of  some  one  at  the 
door. 

AGAMEMNON    (within). 

Murderess  !  oh,  oh  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

The  house  is  filled  with  shrieks. 

CHORUS. 

The  sound  deceives  or  that  was  the 
King's  voice. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

The  voice  of  Agamemnon  ! 

AGAMEMNON   {within). 

Ai  !  ai !  ai ! 

CASSANDRA. 

The  bull  is  in  the  toils. 

AGAMEMNON    [witMn). 

1  will  not  die  I 


omnh 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Z^1 


^GiSTHUS  {within). 

CHORUS- 

O  Zeus  1  he  wili  escape. 

To  the  Agora  i 

CLYTEMNESTRA    {viithin). 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

He  haa  it. 

To  the  temples  I 

AGAIMEMNON    {witkin). 

CHORUS. 

Ai  !  ai ! 

Haste  i  haste  I 

CHORUS. 

Some  hideous    deed  is  being  done 

AGAMEMNON     {witJlin). 

within. 

stabbed,  oh  ! 

Burst  ill  the  doors  ! 

CHORUS. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Too  late  ! 

I  cannot  open  them. 

CASSANDRA. 

Barred,  barred  within  ! 

The  bull  is  bellowing. 

CASSANDRA. 

^GiSTHUS  {within). 

The  axe  is  at  the  bull. 

Thrust  there*  again. 

CHORUS. 

CLYTEMNESTRA   {witJlin). 

Call  the  elders. 

One  blow  has  done  it  all. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

And  the  People.     0   Arrives  !  Ar- 

^GiSTHUS   {within). 

gives  ! 

Is  it  quite  through  ? 

Alinon  !  Alinon  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA    {witUn). 

CHORUS. 

He  will  not  move  again. 

You  to  the  Agora. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

O  Heaven   and   Earth  !     My  heart 

To  the  temples  we. 

stands  still  with  awe  ! 

Where  will  this  murder  end  ? 

CHORUS. 

Hearken,  0  maidens  ! 

CHORUS. 

Hold  I  some  one  comes  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

This  way. 

XYH.      ELECTRA.      ORESTES. 

CHORUS. 

CHORUS.     A  PHOCIAN. 

That  way. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

ELECTRA  {leading  orestes). 

Quick  !  quick  ! 

Save  us  !  save  him— Orestes  ! 

CASSANDRA. 

CHORUS. 

Seal  my  sight,  0  Apollo  !  0  Apollo  I 

What  has  fallen  ? 

388 


CL  YrEMNESTRA. 


ELECTRA. 

An  e^il  thing.    O,  we  are  fatherless ! 

CHORUS. 

Ill-starred  Electra  !     13ut   how  fell 
this  chance  ? 

ELECTRA. 

Ilero  is  nc  time  for  words, — scarce 

time  for  flight. 
When  from  his  royal  bath  the?  Kinr^ 

would  rise, — 
That  devilisli  woman,  lying  long  in 

lurk, 
Behind  him  crept,  with  stealtliy  feet 

unheard, 
And  flung  o'er  all  his  limbs  a  subtle 

web. 
Caught  in  the  craft  of  whose  con- 
trived folds, 
Stumbling,  he  fell,    ^gisthus  seized 

a  sword  ; 
But  halted,  half  irresolute  to  strike. 
My  father,  like  a  lion  in  the  toils. 
Upheaved    his  head,  and,  writhing, 

roared  with  wrath, 
And  angry  shame  at  this   infernal 

snare. 
Almost  he  rent  the    blinding  nets 

atwain. 
But  Clytemnestra  on  him  flung  her- 
self, 
And  caught  the  steel,  and  smit  him 

through  the  ribs. 
He  slipped,  and  reeled.     She  drove 

the  weapon  through, 
Piercing  the  heart  ! 

CHORUS. 

O  woe  !  what  tale  is  this  ? 

ELECTRA. 

I,  too,  with  him,  had  died,  but  for 

this  child, 
And  that  high  vengeance  which  is 

yet  to  be. 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  then  Agamemnon  is  no  more, 
Who  stood,   but  now,   amongst  us, 

fall  of  iiiL-, 


Crowned  with  achieving  years  !  The 

roof  and  cope 
Of  honor,  fallen  !    Where  shall  we 

lift  our  eyes  ? 
Where  set  renown  ?    Where  garner 

up  our  hopes  ? 
All  worth  is  dying  out.     The  land  is 

dark, 
And  Treason  looks    abroad  in  the 

eclipse. 
He  did  not  die  the  death  of  men  that 

live 
Such  life  as  he  lived,  fall'n  among 

his  peers, 
Whom  the  red  battle  rolled  away, 

while  yet 
The    shout    of    Gods  wa3    ringing 

through  and  through  them  ; 
But  Death  that  feared  to  front  him 

in  full  field, 
Liu'ked  by  the  health  and  smote  him 

from  behind. 
A  mighty  man  is  gone.     A  mighty 

grief 
Remains.     And  rumor  of    undyinp; 

deeds 
For  song  and  legend,  to  the  end  of 

time  ! 
What  tower  is  strong  ? 

ELECTRA. 

O  friends — if  fi-iends  you  be — 
For  who  shall  say  where  falsehood 

festers  not. 
Those    being    falsest,    who    shor.lu 

most  Ido  true  ? 
Where  is  that  Phocian }    Let  him 

take  the  boy. 
And  bear  him    with    him    to    his 

master's  court. 
Else  will  ^gisthus  slay  him. 

CHORUS. 

Orphaned  one, 
Fear  you  not  ? 

ORESTES. 

I  am  Agamemnon's  soiu 

CHORUS, 

Therefore  shouldst  feax— 


CL  VTEALVESTRA. 


3«9 


OBESTES. 

And  therefore  cannot  fear. 

PHOCIAN. 

I  heard  a  cry.    Did  any  call  ? 

CHORUS. 

O,  well ! 
You  happen  this  way  in  the  need  of 
time. 

ELECTRA. 

O  loyal  stranger,  Agamemnon's  child 
Is  fatherless.     This  boy  appeals  to 

you. 
O    save    him,   save    him    from  his 

father's  foes  ! 

PHOCIAI^. 

Unhappy  lady,  what  wild  words  are 
these  ? 

ELECTRA. 

The  house  runs  blood,     ^gisthus, 

liko  a  fiend. 
Is  raging  loose,  his  weapon  dripping 
gore. 

CHORUS. 

The  king  is  dead. 

PHOCIAN". 

Is  dead  ! 

ELECTRA. 

Dead. 

PHOCIAN. 

Do  I  dream  ? 

ELECTRA. 

Such  dreams  are  dreamed  in  hell — 

such  dreams — O  no  ! 
Is  not  the  earth   as   solid — heaven 

above — 
The  suu  in  heaven — and  Nature  at 

her  work — 
And  men  at  theirs — the  same  ?    O, 

no  !  no  dream  ! 
We  shall  not  wake — nor  he  ;  though 

the  Gods  sleep  ! 
Unnaturally  murdered — 


PHOCIAN. 

Murdered  ! 

ELECTRA. 

Ay. 
And  the  sun  blackens  not ;  the  world 

is  green  ; 
The  fires  of  the  red  west  are  not  put 

out. 
Is  not  the   cricket  singing    in  tho 

grass  ? 
And  the  shy  lizard  shooting  through 

the  leaves  ? 
I  hear   tiie  ox  low  in  the  labored 

field. 
Those  swallows  build,  and  are  as 

garrulous 
High  up  i'  the  towers.     Yet  I  speak 

the  truth, 
By  Heaven,  I  speak  the  truth — 

PHOCIAN. 

Yet  more,  vouchsafe 
How  died  the  king  ? 

ELECTRA. 

O,  there  shall  be  a  time 
For  words  hereafter.    While  we  dally 

here. 
Fate  haunts,  and  hounds  us.    Friend, 

receive  this  boy. 
Bear   him    to    Strophius.     All  this 

tragedy 
Relate  as  best  you  may  ;  it  beggars 

speech. 
Tell  him  a  tower  of  hope  is  fallen 

this  day — 
A  name  in  Greece — 

PHOCIAN. 

— But  you — 

ELECTRA. 

Away  !  away  ! 
Destruction    posts    apace,  while   we 
delay. 


PHOCIAN. 


CoPie  then 


ELECTRA. 

I  dare  not  leave  my  father'  hearth, 


•?0O 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


For  who  would  then  do  honor  to  his 

urn? 
It  may  be  that  my  womanhood  and 

youth 
May  help  me  here.    It  may  be  I  shall 

fall, 
And  mix  my  own  with  Agamemnon' s 

blood. 
No  matter.     On  Orestes  hangs  the 

hope 
Of    all  this  House.     Him    save  for 

better  days, 
And  ripened  vengeance. 

PHOCIAN. 

Noble-hearted  one  ! 
Come  then,   last  offspring   of   this 

fated  race. 
The  future  calls  thee  ! 

ORESTES. 

Sister  !  Sister  ! 

ELECTKA. 

Go! 

ORESTES. 

O  Sister  ! 

ELECTEA. 

O  my  brother   ! .  .  .  One  last  kiss, — 
One  last  long  kiss, — how  I  have  loved 

thee,  boy  ! 
Was  it  for  this  I  nourished  thy  young, 

years 
With  stately  tales,  and  legends  of  the 

gods? 
For  this  ?  .     .  How  the  past  crowds 

upon  me  !    Ah — 
Wilt  thou   recall,   in  lonely,  lonely 

hours. 
How  once  we  sat  together  on  still 

eves, 
(Ah  me  !)  and  brooded  on  all  serious 

themes 
Of  sweet,  and  high,  and  beautiful, 

and  good, 
That    throng    the    ancient    years. 

Alcmena's  son, 
And  how  his  life  went  out  in  fire  on 

CEta; 
Or  of  that  bright-haired  wanderer 

after  fame. 


That  brought  the  great  gold-fleece 

across  the  sea^ 
And  left  a  name  in  Colchis  ;  or  we 

spake 
Of  the  wise  Theseus,  councils,  king- 
I  doms,  thrones, 

!  And  laws  in  distant  lands  ;  or,  later 
I  still, 

i  Of  the  great  leaguer  set  round  Ilion, 
And  what  heart-stirring  tidings   of 

the  war 
Bards  brought  to  Hellas.     But  when 

I  would  breathe 
Thy  father's  nanie,  didst  thou  not 

grasp  my  hand. 
And  glorious  deeds  shone  round  us 

like  the  stars 
That  lit  the  dark  world  from  a  great 

way  off. 
And  died  up  into  heaven,  among  the 

Gods  ? 

ORESTES. 

Sister,  O  Sister  ! 

ELECTRA. 

Ah,  too  long  we  linger. 
Away  !  away  ! 

PHOCIAN. 

Come  ! 

CHORUS. 

Heaven  go  with  thee  I 
To  Crissa  points  the  hand  of  Destiny 

ELECTRA. 

O  boy,  on  thee  Fate  hangs  an  awful 

weight 
Of  retribution  !      Let  thy  father's 

ghost 
Forever  whisper  in  thine  ear.     Be 

strong. 
About  thee,  yet  unborn,  thy  mother 

wove 
The  mystic  web  of  life  in  such-like 

form 
That  Agamemnon's   spirit  in   thine 

eyes 
Seems  living  yet.     His  seal  is  set  on 

thee  ; 


CL  YTEMNESTRA, 


391 


kwA  Pelops'  ivoiy  shoulder  marks 
thee  his. 

Thee,  child,  nor  contests  on  the 
Isthmian  plain, 

Nor  sacred  apple,  nor  green  laurel- 
leaf, 

But  graver  deeds  await.  Forget  not, 
son, 

Whose  blood,  unwashed,  defiles  thy 
mother's  doors  ! 

CHORUS. 

0  haste  !  I  hear  a  sound  within  the 
house. 

ELECTRA. 

Farewell,  then,  son  of  Agamemnon! 


PHOCIAX. 


Come  ! 


XYIII.     ELECTRA.     CHORUS. 
^GISTHUS. 

ELECTRA. 

Gone  !    gone  !     Ah  saved  !  .  .  .  O 
fool,  thou  missest,  here  ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas.  Electra,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

ELECTRA. 

Touch  me  not !    Come  not  near  me! 

Let  me  be  ! 
For  this  day,  which  I  hoped  for,  is 

not  mine. 

CHORUS. 

See  how  she  gathers  roimd  her  all 

her  robe,  [it  be 

And  sits  apart  with  grief.     O,  can 

Great    Agamemnon    is   among    the 

shades  ? 

ELECTRA. 

Would  I  had  grasped  his  skirt,  and 
followed  him  ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  there  is  an  eminence  of  joy. 
Where    Fate    grows     dizzy,    being 

mounted  there, 
And  so  tilts  over  on  the  other  side  ! 


O  fallen,  O  fallen 

The  tower,  which  stood  so  high  ! 

Whose  base  and  girth  were  strong 

i'  the  earth. 
Whose  head  was  in  the  sky  ! 
O  fall'n  that  tower  of  noble  power, 
That  filled  up  every  eye  I 

He  stood  so  sure,  that  noble  tower  ! 
To  make  secure,  and  fill  with  power, 
From  length  to  length,  the  land  of 

Greece  ! 
In  whose  strong  bulwarks  all  men 

saw. 
Garnered  on  the  lap  of  law. 
For  dearth  or  danger,  spears  of  war, 
And  harvet  sheaves  of  peace  ! 
O  fall'n,  O  fall'n  that  lofty  tower,— 
The  loftiest  tower  in  Greece  I 

His  brows  he  lift  above  the  noon. 
Filled  with  the  day,  a  noble  tower  ! 
Who  took   the    sunshine    and  the 

shower. 
And  flung  them  back  in  merry  scorn. 
Who  now  shall  stand  when  tempests 

lower  ? 
He  was  the  first  to  catch  the  morn, 
The  last  to  see  the  moon. 
O  friends,  he  was  a  noble  tower  ! 
O  friends,  and  fall'n  so  soon  1 

Ah,  well  !  lament  !  lament  ! 

His  walls  are  rent,  his  bulwarks 
bent. 

And  stooped  that  crested  eminence, 

Which  stood  so  high  for  our  de- 
fence ! 

For  our  defence, — to  guard,  and 
fence 

From  all  alarm  of  hurt  and  harm, 

The  fulness  of  a  land's  content  ! 

O  fall'n  away,  fall'n  at  midday. 

And  set  before  the  sun  is  down. 

The  highest  height  of  our  renown  ! 

O  overthrown,  the  ivory  throne  ! 

The  spoils  of  war,  the  golden  crown. 

And  chief^st  honor  of  the  state  ! 

O  mourn  with  me  !  what  tower  is 
free 

From  over-topping  destiny  ? 

What  strength  is  strong  to  fate  ? 


392 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


0  mourn  with  me  I   when  shall  we 

see 
Another  such,  so  good,  so  great  ? 
Another  such,  to  guard  the  state  ? 

^GISTHUS. 

He    should  have    stayed    to  shout 

through  Troy,  or  bellow 
With  bulls  in  Ida— 

CHORUS. 

Look  !    ^gisthus  comes  ! 

Like  some  lean  tiger,  having  dipt  in 
blood 

His  dripping  fangs,  and  hot  athirst 
for  more. 

His  lurid  eyeball  rolls,  as  though  it 
swam 

Through  sanguine  films.  He  stag- 
gers, drunk  with  rage 

And  crazy  mischief. 

^GISTHUS. 

Hold  !  let  no  one  stir  ! 

1  charge  you,  all  of  you,  who  hear 

me  speak, 

Where  may  the  boy  Orestes  lie  con- 
cealed ? 

I  hold  the  life  of  each  in  gage  for 
his. 

If  any  know  where  now  he  hides 
from  us. 

Let  him  beware,  not  rendering  true 
reply  ! 

CHOEUS. 

The  boy  is  fled — 

ELECTRA. 

— is  saved  ! 

^GISTHUS. 

Electra  here  ! 
How  mean  you  ?    What  is  this  ? 

ELECTRA. 

Enoui:h  i^;  left 
^i  Agameranoii's   biaoU  ly  Uiuwn 

you  itt, 


^GISTHUS. 

You  shall  not  trifle  with  me,  by  my 

beard  ! 
There's  peril   in   this  pastime. 

Where's  the  boy  ? 

ELECTRA. 

Half-way  to  Phocis,  Heaven  helping 
him. 

^GISTHUS. 

By  the  black  Styx  ! 

ELECTRA. 

Take  not  the  oath  of  Gods, 
Who  art  but  half  a  man,  blasphem- 
ing coward  ! 

^GISTHUS. 

But  you,  by  Heaven,  if  this  be  a 

sword, 
Shall  not  be  any  more — 

ELECTRA. 

A  slave  to  thee, 
Blundering    bloodshed  der,   though 

thou  boast  tliyself 
As  huge  as  Ossa  piled  on  Pelion, 
Or  anything  but  that  weak  wretch 

thou  art  ! 
O,   thou    hast  only  half  done  thy 

black  work  ! 
Thou  shouldst  have  slain  the  young 

lion  witli  the  old. 
Look  that  he  come  not  back,  and 

find  himself 
Ungiven  food,   and  still  the  lion's 

share  I 

^GISTHUS. 

Insolent  !  but  I  know  to  seal  thy 
lips — 

ELECTRA. 

— For  thou  art  only  strong  among 

the  weak. 
We  know  thou  hast  an  aptitude  for 

blood. 
To  take  a  won)  an*  s  is  an  easy  task» 
Aucl  ofte  well  wortiiy  tUee, 


#. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


393 


^GISTHUS. 

O,  but  for  words  ! 

ELECTRA. 

JTet,  couldst  thou  feed  on  all  the  no- 
hie  blood 
Of  godlike  generations  on  this  earth, 
It  should  not  help  thee  to  a  hero's 
heart. 

CHORUS. 

0  peace,  Electra,  but  for  pity's  sake  ! 
IJeapnothis  madness  to  such  dan- 
gerous heights. 

ELECTRA. 

1  will  speak  out  my  heart's  scorn, 

though  I  die. 

jEGISTHUS. 

And  thou  shalt  die,  but  not  till  I 

have  tamed 
That  stubborn  spirit  to  a  wish  for 

life. 

CHORUS. 

O  cease,    infatuate  !    I    hear    the 
Queen. 

\By  a  movement  of  the  Eccyclema 
the  "palace  is  thrown  open,  and 
discovers  Clytemnestra  stand- 
ing over  the  body  of  Agamem- 

NOX. 

XIX.     CLYTEMNESTRA.     CHO- 
RUS.   ^GISTHUS.  ELECTRA. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Argives  !  behold  the  man  who  was 
your  King  ! 


Dead  !  dead  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Not  I,  but  Fate  hath  dealt  this  blow. 

CHORUS. 

Dead  !   dead,  alas  !   look  where  he 

lies.  O  friends  ! 
That  noble  head,  and  to  be  brought 

80  low  I 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

He  v/ho  set  light  by  woman,  with 
blind  scorn, 

And  held  her  with  the  beasts  we  sac- 
rifice, 

Lies,  by  a  womati  sacrificed  himself. 

This  is  high  justice  which  appeals  to 
you. 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not  words  fo.T> 
this. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

We  are  but  as  the  instrument  oi 
lieaven. 

Our  work  is  not  design,  but  destiny. 

A  God  directs  the  lightning  to  its 
fall  ; 

It  smites  and  slays,  and  passes  other- 
where, 

Pure  in  itself,  as  when,  in  light,  it 

left 
i  Tlie  bosom  of  Olympus,  to  its  end. 

in  this  cold  heart  the  wrong  of  all 
the  past 

Lies  buried.  I  avenged,  and  I  for- 
give. 

Honor  him  yet.  He  is  a  king, 
though  fallen. 

CHORUS. 

O,  how  she  sets  Virtue's  own  crest 

on  Crime, 
And  stands  there  stern  as  Fates  wild 

arbitress  ! 
Not  any  deed  could  make  her  less 

than  great. 

(CLYTEMNESTRA  descends  the 
steps,  and  lays  her  hand  on  the 
arm  o/^gisthus.) 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Put  up  the  sword  1  Enough  of 
blood  is  spilt. 

^GISTHUS. 

Hist !  O,  not  half,  —  Orestes  i? 
escaped, 


394 


CL  YTEMNESTRA, 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Sufficient    for    the    future  be  that 

thought. 
What's  done  is  well  done.     What's 

undone — yet  more  : 
saved  fn 

^GISTHUS. 

This  lion's  whelp 
Will  work  some  mischief  yet. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

He  is  a  child— 
— Our  own — we  will  but  war  upon 

the  strong. 
Not  upon  infants.     Let  this  matter 

rest. 

^GISTHUS. 

O,  ever,  in  the  wake  of  thy  great 
will 

Let  me  steer  sure !  and  we  will  leave 
behind 

Great  tracks  of  light  upon  the  won- 
dering world. 

If  but  you  err  not  here — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

These  pale-eyed  groups  I 
See  how  they    huddle   shuddering, 

and  stand  round  ; 
As    when    some    mighty  beast,  the 

brindled  lord 
Of  the  rough   woodside,   sends  his 

wild  death-roar 
Up  the    sin-ill    caves,   the    meaner 

denizens 
Of    ancient  woods,   shy    deer,   and 

timorous  hares, 
Peer  from   the   liairy  thickets,  and 

shrink  back. 
We  feared  the  iion,  and  we  smote 

him  down. 
Now  fear  is  over.     Shall  we  turn 

aside 
To  harry  jackals  ?    Laugh  !  we  have 

not  laughed 
So  long,  I  think  you  have  forgotten 

Sow  I 


Have    we    no    right  to    laugh   like 

other  men  ? 
Ha !  Ha !  I  laugh.      Now  it  is  time 

to  laugh  ! 

CHORUS. 

O,  awful  sight!      Look  where  the 

bloody  sun, 
As    thougli    with   Agamemnon    he 

were  slain, 
Runs  reeking,  lurid,  down  the  palace 

floors  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  my  beloved !  Now  we  will  reign 
sublime, 

And  set  our  foot  upon  the  neck  of 
Fortune ! 

And  for  the  rest— O,  much  re- 
mains '.—for  you, 

( To  the  Chorus.  ) 

A  milder  sway,  if  mildly  you  submit 

To  our  free  service  and  supremacy. 

Nor  tax,  nor  toll,  to  carry  dim  re- 
sults 

Of  distant  war  beyond  the  perilous 
seas. 

But  gateless  justice  in  our  halls  of 
state, 

And  peace  in  all  the  borders  of  our 
land  ! 

For  you — 

{To  Electra,  who  has  thrown 
herself  upon  the  body  of  Aga- 
memnon. ) 

ELECTRA. 

O,  hush  I    What  more  remains  to 

me, 
But  this  dead  hand,  whose  clasp  is 

cold  in  mine  ? 
And  all  the  baffled  memory  of  the 

past, 
Buried  with  him  ?    What  more  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

— A  mother's  heart; 
If  you  will  come  to  it.    Free  coii- 
fideuce. 


CLYl'EMNESTRA. 


395 


A  liberal  share  in   all  our    future 

hope. 
Now,     more    than    ever — mutually 

weak — 
We    stand    in    need,    each    of    the 

other's  love. 
Our  love  !  it  shall  not  sacrifice  thee, 

child, 
To  wanton  whims  of  war,  as  lie,  of 

old, 
Did  thy  dead  sister.     If  you  will  not 

these,  [then — 

But    answer  lov^  with  scorn,  why 

ELECTRA. 

—What  tiien  ? 

CLYTEMXESTRA. 

Safe    silence.    And    permission    to 
forget. 

XX.    CHORUS.    SEMI-CHORUS. 

CI.YTEMNESTRA.       CASSAX- 
]Jii.^.     ^EGISTHUS. 

CHORUS. 

What  shall  we  say  ?    What  has  been 

done  ? 
Shed  no  tear  !    O.  shed  no  tear  ! 
Hang  up  Ills  harness  in  the  sun  ; 
The  hooked  car,  and  barbe'd  spear  ; 
And  all  war's  adamantine  gear 
Of  trophied  spoils  ;  for  allhis  toils 
Are  over,  alas  !  are  over,  and  done  ! 
What  shall  we  say  ?   What  has  been 

done  ? 
Shed  no  tear  !    O,  shed  no  tear  ! 
But  keep  solemn  silence  all, 
As  befits  when  heroes  fall  : 
Solemn  as  his  fame  is  ;  sad 
As  his  end  was  ;  earth  shall  wear 
Mourning  for  him.     See,  the  sun 
Blushes  red  for  Avhat  is  done  ! 
And  the  wild  stars,  one  by  one, 
Peer  out  of  the  lurid  air, 
And  shrink  back  with  awe  and  fear, 
Hhiuldcj-inc  for  what  is  done. 
When   li.f'   night  comes,  dark   and 

dun 
As  our  sorrow  ;  blackness  far 
{Shuttmg  out  the  crimson  sim  \ 


Turn    his    face    to    the    moon  and 

star, —  [are, 

These  are  briglit  as  his  glories 
And  great  Heaven  shall  see  its  son  I 
What  shall  we  say?    What  has  been 

done  ? 
Shed  no  tear  !    O,  shed  no  tear  ! 
Gather  round  him,  friends  ■     Look 

here  ! 
All  the  wreaths  which  he  hath  won 
In  tlie  race  that  he  hath  run, — 
Laurel  garlands,  every  one  ! 
These  are  things  to  think  upon, 
Mourning  till  fhe  set  of  sun. 
Till  the  mourning  moon  appear. 
Xow  the  wreaths  which  Fame  begun 
To  uplift,  to  crown  his  head. 
Memory  shall  seize  upon, 
And  make  chaplets  for  his  bier. 
He  shall  have  wreaths  though  he  be 

dead  ! 
But  his  monument  is  here, 
Built  up  in  our  hearts,  and  dear 
To  all  honor.     Slied  no  tear  ! 
O,  let  not  any  tear  be  shed  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Look  at  Cassandra  I  she  is  stooping 
down. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

She  dips  and  moves  her  fingers  in 
the  blood  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Look  to  her  !    There's  a  wildness  in 
her  eye  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  does  she  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

O,  in  Agamemnon's  blood, 
She  hath  writ  Orestes  on  the  pala^-e 
steps  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

^gisthus ! 

^GISTHUS. 

Queen  and  biidel 


39^ 


CL  YTEMNESTRA. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

We  have  not  failed. 

CHORUS. 

Come,  venerable,  and  ancient  Night! 
From  sources  of  the  western  stars, 
In  darkest  sliade  that  fits  this  woe. 
Consoler  of  a  thousand  griefs. 
And  likest  death  unalterably  calm. 
We  toil,  aspire,  and  sorrow, 
And  in  a  little  while  shall  cease. 
For  we  know  not  whence  we  came, 
And  who  can  insure  the  morrow  ? 
Thou,  eternally  the  same, 
Fro7n  of  old,  in  endless  peace 
Eternally  survivest  ; 
Enduring  on  through  good  and  ill, 
Coeval  with  the  Gods  ;  and  still 
In  thine  own  silence  livest. 
Our  days  thou  leadest  home  [Again! 
To  the  great  Whither  which  has  no 
Impartiality  to  pleasure  and  to  pain 
Thou  sett' St  the  bourn.       To   thee 
shall  all  things  come. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

But,  if  he  cease  to  love  me,  what  is 
gained  ? 

CASSANDRA. 

With  wings  darkly  spreading, 
Like  ravens  to  the  carcass 
Scenting  far  off  the  savor  of  blood, 
From    shores    of    the    unutterable 

River. 
They  gather  and  swoop. 
They  waver,  they  darken. 
From  the  fangs  that  raven, 
From  the  eyes  that  glare 
Intolerably  fierce, 
Save  me,  Apollo  ! 
Ai  !  Ai  !  Ai  ! 
Alinon !  Alinon ! 

Blood,  blood  !  and  of  kindred  nature, 
Which  the  young  wolf  returning 
Shall  dip  his  fangs  iu, 
Thereby  accursedly 
Imbibing  madness ! 

CHORUS. 

The  wild  woman  is  uttering  strange 

things 
J'earf  ul  to  listeu  tp. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Within  the  house 
Straightway  confine  her, 
There  to  learn  wisdom. 

^GISTHUS. 

Orestes— O,  this  child's  life  now  out- 
weighs 

That  mighty  ruin,  Agamemnon 
dead! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

JSgisthus,  dost  thou  love  me  ? 

^GISTHUS. 

As  my  life  I 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Thou  lovest  me  !     O  love,  we  have 

not  failed. 
Give  me  thy  hand  !   So  .  .  .  lead  me 

to  the  house. 
Let  me  lean  on  thee.    I  am  veiy 

weak. 

CHORUS. 

Only  Heaven  is  high. 

Only  the  Gods  are  great. 

Above  the  searchless  sky, 

In  unremoved  state, 

They  from  their  golden  mansions 

Look  over  the  lands,  and  the  seas; 

The  ocean's  wide  expansions, 

And  the  earth's  varieties  : 

Secure  of  their  supremacy, 

And  sure  of  affluent  ease. 

Who  shall  say,    "I  stand!"  nor 

fall? 
Destiny  is  over  all ! 
Rust  will  crumble  old  renown. 
Bust  and  column  tumble  down  ; 
Keep  and  castle;  tower  and  town; 
Throne    and  sceptre  ;    crest  and 

crown. 
Destiny  is  over  all ! 
One  by  one  the  pale  guests  fall 
At  lighted  feast,  in  palace  hall  ; 
And  feast  is  turned  to  funeral. 
Who  shall  say,  "1  stand!"  nor 

fall  ? 
Destiny  is  over  aii  \ 


GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH.  397 


GOOD-MGHT  IN  THE  PORCH. 

A  LITTLE  longer  in  the  light,  love,  let  me  be.     The  air  is  warm. 

1  hear  the  cuckoo's  last  good-night  float  from  the  copse  below  the  Farm. 

A  little  longer,  Sister  sweet, — your  hand  in  mine, — on  this  old  seat. 

In  yon  red  gable,  which  the  rose  creeps  round  and  o'er,  your  casement 

shines 
Against  the  yellow  west,  o'er  those  forlorn  and  solitary  pines. 
The  long,  long  day  is  nearly  done.     How  silent  all  the  place  is  grown! 

The  stagnant  levels,  one  and  all,  are  burning  in  the  distant  marsh — 
Hark !  'twas  the  bittern's  parting  call.     The  frogs  are  out  :  with  murmurs 

harsh 
The  low  reeds  vibrate.    See  !  the  sun  catches  the  long  pools  one  by  one. 

A.  moment,  and  those  orange  flats  will  turn  dead  gray  or  lurid  white. 
Look  up!  o'erhead  the  winnowing  bats  are  come  and  gone,  eluding  sight. 
The  little  worms  are  out.     The  snails  begin  to  move  down  shining  trails. 

With  slow  pink  cones,  and  soft  wet  horns.     The  garden-bowers  are  dim 

with  dew. 
With  sparkling  drops  the  white-rose  thorns  are  twinkling,  where  the  sun 

slips  through 
Those  reefs  of  coral  buds  hmig  free  below  the  purple  Judas-tree. 

From  the  wann  upland  comes  a  gust  made  fragrant  with  the  brown  hay 

there, 
The  meek  cows,  with  their  white  horns  thrust  above  the  hedge,  stand  still 

and  stare. 
The  steaming  horses  from  the  wains  droop  o'er  the  tank  their  plaited 

manes. 

And  o'er  yon  hillside  brown  and  barren  (where  you  and  I  as  children 

played, 
Starting  the  rabbit  to  his  warren),  I  hear  the  sandy,  shrill  cascade 
Leap  do^vn  upon  the  vale,  and  spill  his  heart  out  round  the  muffled  mill. 

O  can  it  be  for  nothing  only  that  God  has  shown  his  world  to  me  ?  ^ 

Or  but  to  leave  the  heart  more  lonely  with  loss  of  beauty  .  .  .  can  it  be  ? 

O  closer,  closer.  Sister  dear  .  .  .  nay,  I  have  kist  away  that  tear. 

God  bless  you,  Dear,  for  that  kind  thought  which  only  upon  tears  could 

rise! 
God  bless  you  for  the  love  that  sought  to  hide  them  in  those  drooping  eyes, 
Whose  lids  I  kiss!  .  .  .   poor  lids,  so  red!  but  let  my  kiss  fail  therQ 

jnstea4f 


39S  GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCH. 

Yes,  sad  indeed  it  seems,  each  night, — and  sadder,  Dear,  for  your  sweet 

sake ! 
To  watch  the  last  low  lingering  light,  and  know  not  where  the  morn  may 

break, 
To-night  we  sit  together  here.      To-morrow  night  will  come     .  .  ah, 

where  ? 

O  child  !  howe'er  assured  be  faith,  to  say  farewell  is  fraught  with  gloom, 
When,  like  one  flower,  the  germs  of  death  and  genius  ripen  toward  the 

tomb  ; 
And  earth  each  day,  as  some  fond  face  at  parting,  gains  a  grav  er  grace. 

There's  not  a  flower,  there's  not  a  tree  in  this  old  garden  where  we  sit, 
But  what  some  fragrant  memory  is  closed  and  folded  up  in  it. 
To-night  the  dog-rose  smells  as  wild,  as  fresh,  as  when  1  was  a  child. 

'Tis  eight  years  since  (do  you  forget  ?)  we  set  those  lilies  near  the  wall : 
You  were  a  blue-eyed  child  :  even  yet  I  seem  to  see  the  ringlets  fall, — 
The  golden  ringlets,  biown  behind  your  shoulders  in  the  merry  wind. 

Ah,  me  !  old  times,  they  cling,  they  cling  !    And  oft  by  yonder  green  old 

gate 
The  field  shows  through,  in  morns  of  spring,  an  eager  boy,  I  paused  elate 
With  all  sweet  fancies  loosed  from  school.     And  oft,  you  know,  when  eves 

were  cool, 

In  summer-time,  and  through  the  trees  young  gnats  began  to  be  about, 
With  some  old  l30ok  upon  your  knees  'twas  here  you  watched  the  ?.tars 

come  out. 
While  oft,  to  please  me,  you  sang  through  some  foolish  song  I  made  for 

you. 

And  there's  my  epic  —  I  began  when  life   seemed  long,  though  longer 

art — 
And  all  the  glorious  deeds  of  man  made  golden  riot  in  my  heart — 
Eight  books  ...  it  will  not  number  nine  !    I  die  before  my  heroine. 

Sister  !  they  say  that  drowning  men  in  one  wild  moment  can  recall 
Their  whole  life  long,  and  feel  again  the  pain— the  bhss— that  thronged 

it  ah  :— 
Last  night  those  phantoms  of  the  Past  again  came  crowding  round  me 

fast. 

Kear  morning,  when  the  lamp  was  low,  against  the  wall  they  seemed  to 

flit; 
And,  as  the  wavering  light  would  glow  or  iall,  they  came  and  went  with 

it. 
The  ghost  Df  boyhood  seemed  to  gaze  down  the  dark  verge  of  vanishtdays. 

Once  more  the  garden  where  she  walked  on  summer  eves  to  tend  her 

flowers. 
Once  more  the  lawn  where  first  we  talked  of  future  years  in  twilight  hours 
Arose  ;  once  more  she  seemed  to  pass  before  me  in  the  waving  grass 


GOOD-NIGHT  IN-  THE  POl^CfT.  399 


To  that  old  terrace  ;  her  bright  hair  about  her  warm  neck  all  undone, 

And  waving  on  the  balmy  air,  with  tinges  of  the  dying  sun. 

Just  one  star  kindling  in  the  west  :  just  one  bird  singing  near  its  nest. 

So  lovely,  so  beloved  !  O,  fair  as  though  that  sun  had  never  set 
Which  stayed  upon  her  golden  hair,  in  dreams  I  seem  to  see  her  yet ! 
To  see  her  in  that  old  green  place, — the  same  husht,  smiling,  cruel  face  ! 

A  little  older,  love,  than  you  are  now  ;  and  I  was  then  a  boy  ; 
And  wild  and  wayward-hearted  too  ;  to  her  my  passion  was  a  toy, 
Soon  broken  !  ah,  a  foolish  thing, — a  butterfly  with  crumpled  wing  ! 

Eer  hair,  too,  was  like  yours,— as  bright,  but  with  a  warmer  golden  tinge: 
Her  eyes, — a  someAvhat  deeper  light,  and  dreamed  below  a  longer  fringe  : 
And  still  that  strange  grave  smile  she  had  stays  in  my  heart  and  keeps  it 
sad  ! 

There's  no  one  knows  it,  truest  friend,  but  you,  for  I  have  never  breathed 
To  other  ears  the  frozen  end  of  those  spring-garlands  Hope  once  wreathed ; 
And  death  will  come  before  again  I  breathe  that  name  untouched  by  pain  ! 

From  little  things — a  star,  a  flower — that  touched  us  with  the  self-same 

thought, 
My  passiondeepened  hour  by  hour,  until  to  that  fierce  heat  'twas  wrought. 
Which,  shrivelling  over  every  nerve,  crumbled  the  outworks  of  reserve. 

I  told  her  then,  in  that  wild  time,  the  love  I  knew  she  long  had  seen  ; 
The  accusi'iig  pain  that  burned  like  crime,  yet  left  me  nobler  than  I  had 

been  ; 
Wliat  matter  with  what  words  I  wooed  her  ?  She  said  I  had  misunderstood 

her. 

And  something  more— small  matter  what  !    of  friendship  something — 

sister's  love — 
She  said  that  I  was  young— knew  not  my  own  heart— as  the  years  would 

prove — 
She  wished  me  happy — she  conceived  an  interest  in  me — and  believed 

I  should  grow  up  to  something  great— and  soon  forget  her— soon  forget 

Tiiis  fancy — and  congratulate  my  life  she  had  released  it,  yet — 

With  more  such  words— a  lie  !  a  lie !  She  broke  my  heart,  and  flung  it  by  \ 

A  lifo^s  libation  lifted  up,  from  her  proud  lip  she  dashed  untasted: 

Ther    trampled  lay  love's  costly  cup,   and  in  the  dust  the  wine  was 

wasted: 
She  knjw  I  could  not  pour  such  wine  again  at  any  other  shrine. 

Then  I  remember  a  numb  mood  :  mad  murmurings  of  the  words  she 
said  : 

A  slow  shame  smouldering  through  my  blood  ;  that  surged  and  sung  with- 
in my  head  : 

And  drunken  sunlights  reeling  through  the  leaves  :  above,  the  burnishti 


400  COOD-mCHT  m  THE  PORCH. 

Hot  on  my  eyes, — a  blazing  shield  :  a  noise  among  the  waterfalls  : 

A  free  crow  up  the  brown  cornfield  floating  at  will  :  faint  shepherd-calls: 

And  reapers  reaping  in  the  shocks  of  gold  :  and  girls  with  purple  frocks : 

All  which  the  more  confused  my  brain  :  and  nothing  could  I  realize 
But  the  great  fact  of  my  own  pain  :  I  saw  the  fields  :  I  heard  the  cries  : 
The  crow's  shade  dwindled  up  the  hill  :  the   world  went  on  :  my  heart 
stood  still. 

I  thought  I  held  in  my  hot  hand  my  life  crusht  up  :  I  could  have  tost 
The  crumpled  riddle  from  me,  and  laughed  loud  to  think  what  I  had  lost. 
A  bitter  strength  was  in  my  mind :  like  Samson,  when  she  scorned  him — 
blind. 

And  casting  reckless  arms  about  the  props  of  life  to  hug  them  down, — 
A  madman  with  his  eyes  put  out.     But  all  my  anger  was  my  own. 
I  spared  the  worm  upon  my  walk  :  I  left  the  white  rose  on  its  stalk. 

All's  over  long  since.    Was  it  strange  that  I  was  mad  with  grief  and 

shame  ? 
And  I  would  cross  the  seas,  and  change  my  ancient  home,  my  father's 

name  ? 
In  the  wild  hope,  if  that  might  be,  to  change  my  own  identity  ! 

T  know  that  I  was  wrong  :  I  know  it  was  not  well  to  be  so  wild. 

But  the  scorn  stung  so  !  .  .  .  Pity  now  could  wound  not ! .  .  .  I  have  seen 

her  child  : 
It  had  the  self-same  eyes  she  had  :  their  gazing  almost  made  me  mad. 

Dark  violet  eyes  whose  glances,  deep  with  April  hints  of  sunny  tears, 
'Neath  long  soft  lashes  laid  asleep,  seemed  all  too  thoughtful  for  her 

years  ; 
As  though  from  mine  her  gaze  had  caught  the  secret  of  some  mournfiJ 

thought. 

But,  when  she  spoke  her  father's  air  broke  o'er  her  .  .  .  that  clear  con- 
fident voice  ! 
Some  happy  souls  there  are,  that  wear  their  nature  lightly  ;  these  rejoice 
The  world  by  living  ;  and  receive  from  all  men  more  than  what  they  give. 

One  handful  of  their  buoyant  chaff  exceeds  our  hoards  of  careful  grain  : 
Because  their  love  breaks  through  their  laugh,  while  ours  is  fraught  with 

tender  pain  : 
The  world,  that  loiows  itself  too  sad,  is  proud  to  keep  some  faces  glad  : 

And,  so  it  is  !  from  such  an  one  Misfortune  softly  steps  aside 
To  let  him  still  walk  in  the  sun.     These  things  must  be.     I  cannot  chide. 
Had  I  been  she  I  might  have  made  the  self -same  choice.     She  shunned  the 
shade. 

To  some  men  God  hath  given  laughter  ;  but  tears  to  some  men  he  hath 

given  : 
He  bade  us  sow  in  tears,  hereafter  to  harvest  holier  smiles  in  Heaven  : 
And  tears  and  smiles,  they  are  His  gift :  both  good,  to  smite  or  to  uplift ; 


GOOD-NIGHT  IN  TfTE  PORCB.  401 


He  knows  His  sheep  :  the  wind  and  showers  beat  not  too  starply  the 

shorn  lamb  : 
His  wisdom  is  more  wise  than  ours  :  He  knew  my  nature — what  I  am  : 
He  tempers  smiles  with  tears  :  both  good,  to  bear  in  time  the  Christian 

mood. 

O  yet — in  scorn  of  mean  reUef,  let  Sorrow  bear  her  heavenly  fruit  I 
Better  the  wildest  hour  of  grief  than  the  low  pastime  of  the  brute  ! 
Better  to  weep,  for  He  wept  too,  than  laugh  as  every  fool  can  do  ! 

For  sure,   'twere  best  to  bear  the  cross  ;  nor  lightly  fling  the  thorns 

behind  ; 
Lest  we  grow  happy  by  the  loss  of  what  was  noblest  in  the  mind. 
— Here — in  the  ruins  of  my  years — Father,  I  bless  Thee  through  these 

tears  ! 

It  was  in  the  far  foreign  lands  this  sickness  came  upon  me  first. 

Below  strange  suns,  'mid  alien  hands,  this  fever  of  the  south  was  nurst, 

Until  it  reached  some  vital  part.    I  die  jiot  of  a  broken  heart. 

0  think  not   that  !     If  I  could  live  .   .   .   there's  much  to   live  for — 

worthy  life. 
It  is  not  for  what  fame  could  give — though  that  I  scorn  not— but  the  strife 
Were  noble  for  its  own  sake  too.     I  thought  that  I  had  much  to  do — 

But  God  is  wisest  !    Hark,  again  !  .  .  .  'twas  yon  black  bittern,  as  he 

rose 
Against  the  wild  light  o'er  the  fen.     How  red  your  little  casement  glows  ! 
The  night  falls  fast.     How  lonely.  Dear,  this  bleak  old  house  will  look 

next  year  ! 

So  sad  a  thought  ?  ...  ah,  yes  !  I  know  it  is  not  good  to  brood  on  this  : 
And  yet — such  thoughts  will  come  and  go,  unbidden.      Tis  that  you 

should  miss, 
My  darling,  one  familiar  tone  of  this  weak  voice  when  I  am  gone. 

And,  for  what's  past, — I  will  not  say  in  what  she  did  that  all  was  right, 
But  all's  forgiven  ;  and  I  pray  for  her  heart's  welfare,  day  and  night. 
All  things  are  changed  !    This  cheek  would  glow  even  near  hers  but 
faintly  now  ! 

Thou — God  !  before  whose  sleepless  eye  not  even  in  vain  the  sparrows 

fall. 
Receive,  sustain  me  !    Sanctify  my  soul.     Thou  know'st,  Thou  lovest  all. 
Too  weak  to  walk  alone — I  see  Thy  hand  :  I  falter  back  to  Thee. 

Saved  from  the  curse  of  time  which  throws  its  baseness  on  us  day  by  day  : 
Its  wretched  joys,  and  worthless  woes  ;  till  all  the  heart  is  worn  away. 

1  feel  Thee  near.     I  hold  my  breath,  by  the  half-open  doors  of  Death. 

And  sometimes,  glimpses  from    within  of   glory   (wondrous  sight  and 
sound  !) 


402  GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  PORCtl. 


Float  near  me  : — faces  pure  from  sin ;  strange  music  ;  saints  with  splendor 

crowned  : 
I  seem  to  feel  my  native  air  blow  down  from  some  high  region  there, 

And  fan  my  spirit  pure  :  I  rise  above  the  sense  of  loss  and  pain  : 

Faint  forms  that  lured  my  childhood's  eyes,   long  lost,  I  seem  to  find 

again  : 
I  see  the  end  of  all  :  I  feel  hope,  awe,  no  language  can  reveal. 

Forgive  me.  Lord,  if  overmuch  I  loved  that  form  Thou  mad'st  so  fair  ; 
I  know  that  Thou  didst  make  her  such  ;  and  fair  but  as  th3  flowers 

"were, — 
Thy  work  :  her  beauty  was  but  Thine  ;  the  human  less  than  the  divine. 

My  life  hath  been  one  search  for  Thee  'mid  thorns  found  red  with  Thy 

dear  blood  ; 
In  many  a  dark  Gethsemane  I  seemed  to  stand  where  Thou  hadst  stood  : 
And,  scorned  in  this  world's  Judgment-Place,  at  times,  through  tears,  to 

catch  Thy  face. 

Thou  suffered' St  here,  and  didst  not  fail  :  Thy  bleeding  feet  these  paths 

have  trod  : 
But  Thou  wert  strong,  and  I  am  frail :  and  I  am  man,  and  Thou  wert 

God. 
Be  near  me  :  keep  me  in  Thy  sight  :  or  lay  my  soul  asleep  in  light. 

O  to  be  where  the  meanest  mind  is  more  than  Shakespeare  !  where  one 

look 
Shows  more  than  here  the  wise  can  find,  though  toiling  slow  from  book  to 

book  ! 
Where  life  is  knowledge  :  love  is  sure  :  and  hope's  brief  promise  made 

secure. 

0  dying  voice  of  human  praise  !  the  crude  ambitions  of  my  youth  ! 

1  long  to  pour  immortal  lays  !  great  pagans  of  perennial  Truth  ! 

A  larger  work  !  a  loftier  aim  !  .  .  .  and  what  are  laurel-leaves  and  fame  ? 

And  what  are  words  ?    How  little  these  the  silence  of  the  soul  express  I 
Mere  froth, — the  foam  and  flower  of  seas  whose  hungering  waters  heave 

and  press 
Against  the  planets   and  the  sides  of    night, — mute,   yearning,   mystic 

tides  ! 

To  ease  the  heart  with  song  is  sweet  :  sweet  to  be  heard  if  heard  by  love. 
And  you  have  heard  me.     When  we  meet  shall  we  not  sing  the  old  songs 

above 
To  grander  music  ?    Sweet,  one  kiss.     O  blest  it  is  to  die  like  this  ! 

To  lapse  from  being  without  pain  :  your  hand  in  mine,  on  mine  your 

heart  : 
The  unshaken  faith  to  meet  again  that  sheathes  the  pang  with  which  we 

part  : 
My  head  upon  your  bosom,  sweet :  your  hand  in  mine,  on  this  old  seat  I 


THE  EARVS  RETURI^. ,, 

J: 


403 


So  ;  closer  wind  that  tender  arm  .  .  .  How  the  hot  tears  fall  !    Do  not 

weep, 
Beloved,  but  let  your  smile  stay  warm  about  me.     "  In  the  Lord  they 

sleep." 
Tou  know  the  words  the  Scripture  saith  .  .  .  O  light,  O  Glory  !  ...  is 

this  death  ? 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


Ragged  and  tall    stood  the   castle 

wall 
And  the  squires    at  their  sport,  in 

the  great  South  Court, 
Lounged  all  day  long  from  stable  to 

hall 
Laughingly,  lazily,  one  and  all. 
The   land   about    was    barren    and 

blue. 
And  swept  by  the  wing  of  the  wet 

sea-mew. 
Seven  fishermen's  huts  on  a  shelly 

shore  ; 
Sand-heaps  behind,  and  sand-banks 

before  ; 
And  c*  black    champaign    streaked 

white  all  through 
To  a  great  salt  pool  which  the  ocean 

drew, 
Sucked  into  itself,  and  disgorged  it 

again 
To  stagnate  and  steam  on  the  min- 
eral plain  ; 
Not  a  tree  or  a  bush  in  the  circle  of 

sight. 
But   a  bare  black  thorn  wliich  the 

sea-winds  had  withered 
With  the  drifting  scum  of  the  surf 

and  blight, 
And   some  patches   of   gray   grass- 
land to  the  right. 
Where    the    lean    red-hided    cattle 

were  tethered  : 
A  reef  of  rock  wedged  the  water  in 

twain. 
And  a  stout  stone  tower  stood  square 

to  the  main. 


And  the  flakes   of  the  spray  tliat 

were  jerked  away 
From  the  froth  on  the  lip  of  the 

bleak  blue  sea 
Were  sometimes  flung  by  the  wind, 

as  it  swung 
Over  turret  and  terrace  and  balcony, 
To  the    garden    below    where,    in 

desolate  corners 
Under    the    mossy    green    parapet 

there, 
The   lilies   crouched,    rocking  their 

white  heads  like  mourners. 
And  burned  off  the  heads  of    the 

flowers  that  were 
Pining  and  pale  in  their  comfortless 

bowers. 
Dry-bushed  with  the  sharp  stubborn 

lavender, 
And   paven  with   disks  of  the  torn 

sunflowers. 
Which,  day  by  day,  were  strangled, 

and  stripped 
Of  their  ravelling  fringes  and  brazen 

bosses, 
And  the  hardy  mary-buds  nipped  and 

ripped 
Into  shreds  for  the  beetles  that  lurked 

in  the  mosses. 

Here  she  lived  alone,  and  from  year 

to  year  [appear 

She  saw  the  black  belt  of  the  ocean 

At  her  casement  each  morn  as  she 

rose  ;  and  each  morn 
i  Her  eye  fell  first  on  the  bare  black 
1  thorn. 


404 


THE  EARVS  RETURI^. 


This  was    all  :    nothing  more  :    or 

sometimes  on  ilie  shore 
The  fishermen  sang  when  the  fish- 
ing was  o'er  ; 
Or  the  lowing  of  oxen  fell  dreamily. 
Close  on  the  shut  of  the  glimmering 

eves, 
Through  some  gusty  pause  in  the 

moaning  sea, 
When  the  pools   were  splashed  pink 

by  the  thirsty  beeves 
Or     sometimes,     when    the    pearl- 
lighted  morns  drew  the  tinges 
Of  the  cold  sunrise  up  their  amber 

fringes, 
A  white  sail  peered  over  the  rim  of 

the  main, 
Looked  all  about  o'er  the  empty  sea, 
Staggering  back  from  the  fine  line  of 

white  light  again, 
A.nd  dropped  downto  another  world 

silently. 
Then    she  breathed    freer.      With 

sickening  dread 
She    had   watched  five   pale  young 

moons  unfold 
From  their  notchy  cavern  in  light, 

and  spread 
To  the  fuller  light,  and  again  grow 

old, 
And  dwindle  away  to  a  luminous 

shred. 
"  He  will   not    come  back   till  the 

Spring's  green  and  gold. 
And  I  would  that  I  with  the  leaves 

were  dead, 
Quiet  somewhere  with  them  in  the 

moss  and  the  mould. 
When  he  and  the  summer  come  this 

way,"  she  said. 
And  when  the    dull  sky   darkened 

down  to  the  edges, 
And  the  keen  frost  kindled  in  star 

and  spar, 
The  sea  might  be  known  by  a  noise 

on  the  ledges 
Of  the  long  crags,  gathering  power 

from  afar 
Through  his  roaring  bays,  and  crawl- 
ing back  [dragged 
Hissing,  as  o'er  the  wet  pebbles  he 


His  skirt  of  foam  frayed,  dripping, 

and  jagged, 
And  reluctantly  fell  down  the  smooiii 

hollow  shell 
Of  the  night,  whose  lustrous  surface 

of  black 
In  spots   to    an    intense  blue    was 

worn. 
But  later,  when  up  on  the  sullen  sea- 
bar 
The  wide    large-lighted    moon    had 

arisen, 
Where    the    dark  and    voluminous 

ocean  grew  luminous, 
Helping  after  her  slowly  one   little 

shy  star 
That  shook  blue  in  the  cold,  and 

looked  forlorn. 
The  clouds   were   troubled,  and   the' 

wind  from  his  prison 
Behind   them  leaped    down   with  a 

light  laugh  of  scorn  ; 
Then  the  last  thing  she  saw  was  that 

bare  black  thorn  ; 
Or  the    forke'd  tree,   as  the    bleak 

blast  took  it, 
Howled  through  it,  and  beat  it,  and 

bit  it,  and  shook  it, 
Seemed  to  visibly  waste  and  wither , 

and  wizen. 

And  the  snow  was  lifted  into  tho  air 

Layer  by  layer, 

And  turned  into  vast  white  clouds  ^ 

that  flew  1 

Silent    and    fleet    up  the    sky,  andj 

were  riven  i 

And  jerked  into  chasms  which  the 

sun  leaped  through, 
Opening  crystal  gulfs  "of  a    breezy 

blue 
Fed  with  rainy  lights  of  the  April, 

heaven. 
From  eaves  and  leaves  the  quiveriiigj 

dew 
Sparkled  off  ;    and  the  rich  eartli,| 

black  and  bare, 
Was  starred  with  snowdrops  every- 
where ; 
And  the  crocus  upturned  its  flame,^ 

and  burned" 


THE  EARVS  RETURN. 


40s 


Here  and  there. 

*•  The  Summer.''  she  said,  "  cometh 
bUthe  and  bold  ; 

A.nd  the  crocus  is  lit  for  her  welcom- 
ing ;  i 

And  the  days  will  have  garments  of  j 
purple  and  gold  ;  I 

But  I  would  be  left  by  the  pale  green  ' 
Spring 

With    the     snowdrops     somewhere 
under  the  mould  ; 

For    I    dare    not    think    what    the 
Summer  may  bring." 

Pale  she  was  as  the  bramble  blooms 
That  fill  the  long  fields  with   their 

faint  perfumes. 
When     the    May-wind     flits    finely 

through  sun-threaded  showers, 
Breathing  low  to  himself  in  his  dim 

meadow-bowers. 
And  her  cheek  each  year  was  paler 

and  thinner, 
And  wliite  as  the  pearl  that  was  hung 

at  her  ear, 
As  her  sad  heart  sickened  and  pined 

within  her, 
And  failed  and  fainted  from  year  to 

year. 
So  that    the  Seneschal,   rough  and 

gray, 
Said,  as  he  looked  in  her  face  one 

day, 
"  St.  Catherine  save  all  good   souls, 

I  pray, 
For  our  pale  yoimg  lady  is  paling 

away. 
O  the  Saints,"  he  said,  smiling  bitter 

and  grim, 
•'  Know  she's  too  fair  and  too  good  for 

him  !  " 
Sometimes  she  walked  on  the  upper 

leads. 
And  leaned    on    the    arm    of  the 

weatherworn  Warden. 
Sometimes  she  sat  'twixt  the  mildewy 

beds 
Of  the    sea-singed   flowers    in    the 

Pleasaunce  Garden. 
Till    the    rotting  blooms     that    lay 

thick  on  the  walks 


Were  combed  by  the  white  sea-gust 
like  a  rake, 

And  the  stimulant  steam  of  the 
leaves  and  stalks 

Made  the  coiled  memory,  numb  and 
cold. 

That  slept  in  her  heart  like  a  dream- 
ing snake, 

Drowsily  lift  itself,  fold  by  fold, 

And  gnaw  and  gnaw  hmigrily,  half 
awake. 

Sometimes    she    looked    from    the 

window  below 
To  the  great  South  Court  and  the 

squires,  at  their  sport, 
Loungingly  loitering  to  and  fro. 
She  heard  the  grooms  there  as  they 

cursed  one  another. 
She  heard  the  great  bowls  falling  all 

day  long 
In  the  bowling-alleys.      She  heard 

the  song 
Of  the  shock-headed  Pages  that  drank 

without  stint  in 
The  echoing  courts,  and  swore  hard 

at  each  other. 
She  saw  the  red  face  of  the  rough 

wooden  Quintin, 
And   the   swinging    sand-bag  ready 

to  smother 
The  awkward  Squire  that  missed  the 

mark. 
And,  all  day  long,  between  the   dull 

noises 
Of  the  bowls,  and  the  oaths,  and  the 

singing  voices. 
The  sea  boomed  hoarse  till  the  skies 

were  dark. 

But  when  the  swallow,  that  sweet 

new-comer, 
Floated  over  the  sea  in  the  front  of 

the  summer. 
The  salt  dry  sands  burned  white,  and 

sickened 
Men's  sight  in  the  glaring  horn  of  the 

bay  ; 
And  all  things  that  fasten,  or  float  at 

ease 
In  the  silvery  light  of  the  leprous 

seas 


40(5 


THE  EARUS  RETURN. 


With  tlie  pulse  of  a  hideous  life  were 

quickened, 
Fell    loose    from     the    rocks,    and 

crawled  crosswise  away, 
Slippery    sidelong     crabs,     half 

strangled 
By  the  white  sea  grasses  in  which 

they  were  tangled, 
And    those     half-living    creatures, 

orbed,      rayed,     and     sharp- 
angled. 
Fan-fish,  and  star-fish,  and  polypous 

lumps, 
Hueless  and  boneless,  that  languidly 

thickened. 
Or  flat-faced,   or  spike'd,   or  ridge'd 

with  humps, 
Melting  off  from  their  clotted  clusters 

and  clumps 
Sprawled  over  the  shore  in  the  heat 

of  the  day. 

An  hour  before  the  sun  was  set 

A  darker  ripple  rolled  over  the  sea  ; 

The  white  rocks  quivered  in  wells  of 
jet; 

And  the  great  West,  opening  breath- 
lessly 

Up  all  his  inmost  orange,  gave 

Hints  of  something  distant  and 
sweet 

That  made  her  heart  swell  ;  far  up 
the  wave 

The  clouds  that  lay  piled  in  the 
golden  heat 

Were  turned  into  types  of  the  an- 
cient mountains 

In  an  ancient  land  ;  the  weeds, 
which  forlorn 

Waves  were  swaying  neglectfully, 

By  their  sounds,  as  they  dipped  into 
sparkles  that  dripped 

In  the  emerald  creeks  that  ran  up 
from  the  shore, 

Brought  back  to  her  fancy  the  bub- 
ble of  fountains 

Leaping  and  falling  continually 

In  valleys  where  she  should  wander 
no  more. 

A.nd  v/hen,  over  all  of  these,   the 
night 


Among   her  mazy  and  milk  white 

signs, 
And  clustered  orbs,  and  zigzag  lines, 
Burst    into    blossom  of    stars    and 

light, 
The  sea  was  glassy  ;  the  glassy  brine 
Was  paven  with  lights, — blue,  crys- . 

talline, 
And  emerald  keen  ;  the  dark  world, 

hung  ; 

Balanced    under    the    moon,    and 

swung 
In  a  net  of  silver  sparkles.     Then 

she 
Rippled  her  yellow  hair  to  her  knee, 
Bared   her  warm  white  bosom  and 

throat. 
And  from  the  lattice  leaned  athirst. 
There,  on  the  silence  did  she  gloat 
With  a    dizzy  pleasure  steeped  in 

pain, 
Half  catching  the  soul  of  the  secret 

that  blended 
God  with  his  starlight,  then  feeling 

it  vain. 
Like  a  pining  poet  ready  to  burst 
With  the  weight  of  the  wonder  that 

grows  in  his  brain. 
Or  a  nightingale,  mute  at  the  sound  1 

of  a  lute 
That  is  swelling  and   breaking  his] 

heart  with  its  strain, 
Waiting,  breathless,  to  die  when  tht 

music  is  ended. 
For  the  sleek  and  beautiful  midnigh^ 

stole, 
Like  a  faithless  friend,  her  secret 

care, 
CrejDt    through    each    pore    to  th« 

source  of  the  soul. 
And  mocked  at  the  angush  which  h^ 

found  there. 
Shining  away  from  her,  scornful  anc 

fair 
In  his  pitiless  beauty,   refusing 

share 
The  discontent  which  he  could  n( 

control. 

The  water-rat,  as  he  skulked  in  tl 
moat, 


THE  EARUS  RETURN: 


407 


Set  all  the  slumbrous  lilies  afloat, 
And  sent  a  sharp  quick  pulse  along 
The  stagnant  liglit,  that  heaved  and 

swung 
The  leaves  together.     Suddenly 
At  times  a  shooting  star  would  spin 
Shell-like  out  of  heaven,  and  tumble 

in, 
And  burst  o'er  a  city  of  stars  ;  but 

she. 
As  lie  dashed  on  the  back  of  the  zo- 
diac. 
And  quivered  and  glowed  down  arc 

and  node, 
And  split  sparkling  into  infinity, 
Thouglit  that  some  angel,  in  his  rev- 
eries 
Thinking  of  earth,  as  he  pensively 
Leaned  over  the  star-grated  balcony 
In  his  palace  among  the  Pleiades, 
And  grieved  for  the  sorrow  he  saw 

in  the  land, 
Had  dropped  a  white  lily  from  his 
loose  hand. 

And  thus  many  a  night,  steeped  pale 

in  the  light 
Of  the  stars,   when   the  bells   and 

clocks 
Had  ceased  in  the  towers,  and  the 

sound  of  the  hours 
Was  eddying  about  in  the  rocks, 
Deep-sunken   in  bristling    broidery 

between  the  black  oak  Fiends 

sat  she. 
And  under  tlie  moth-flitted  canopy 
Of  the  mighty  antique  bed  in  her 

chamber, 
With  wild  eyes  drinking  up  the  sea. 
And  her  white  hands  heavy  with 

jewelry, 
Flashing  as  she  loosed  languidly 
Her  satins  of  snow  and  of  amber. 
And  as,  fold  by  fold,  these  were  rip- 
pled and  rolled 
To  her  feet,  and  lay  huddled  in  ruins 

of  gold, 
She    looked    like    some   pale  spirit 

above 
Earth's    dazzling    passions    forever 

ttung  by, 


Freed  from  the  stains  of  an  earthly 

love, 
And  those  splendid  shackles  of  pride 

that  press 
On  the  heart  till  it  aches  with  the 

gorgeous  stress, 
Quitting  the  base  Past  remorsefully. 
And  so  she  put  by  the  coil  and  care 
Of  the  day  that  lay  furled  like  an 

idle  weft 
Of  heaped  spots  which  a  bright  snake 

hath  left. 
Or  that  dark  house,  the  blind  worm's 

lair, 
AVhen  the  star-winge'd  moth  from 

the  windows  hath  crept. 
Steeped  her  soul  in  a  tearful  prayer, 
Shrank    into    her  naked  self,   and 

slept. 

And  as  she  slumbered,  starred  and 
eyed 

All  over  with  angry  gems,  at  her 
side, 

The  Fiends  in  the  oak  kept  ward 
and  watch  ; 

And  the  querulous  clock,  on  its  rusty 
catch. 

With  a  quick  tick,  husky  and  thick. 

Clamored  and  clacked  at  her  sharply. 
There  was 

(Fronting  a  portrait  of  the  Earl) 

A  shrine  with  a  dim  green  lamp,  and 
a  cross 

Of  glowing  cedar  wreathed  with 
pearl,  [writ, 

Which  the  Arimathaean,  so  it  was 

When  he  came  from  the  holy  Orient, 

Had  worn,  with  his  prayers  embalm- 
ing it. 

As  with  l.he  San-Grael  through  the 
world  he  went. 

ITnderneath  were  relics  and  gems 

From  many  an  antique  king-saint's 
crown, 

And  some  ('twas  avouched)  from  the 
dusk  diadems 

And  mighty  rings  of  those  Wise 
Kings 

That  evermore  sleep  'mid  the  mar- 
ble stems, 


4o8 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


'Twixt  chancel  and  chalice  in  God 
his  palace, 

The  marvel  of  Cologne  Town. 

In  a  halo  dim  of  the  lamp  all  night 

Smiled  the  sad  Virgin,  holy  and 
white, 

With  a  face  as  full  of  the  soul's  af- 
fliction 

As  one  that  had  looked  on  the  Cru- 
cifixion. 

At  moonrise  the  land  was  suddenly 

brighter ; 
And    through    all    its    length    and 

breadth  the  casement 
Grew  large  with  a  luminous  strange 

amazement. 
And,  as  doubting  in  dreams  what 

that  sudden  blaze  meant. 
The  Lady's  white    face    turned    a 

thought  w^hiter. 
Sometimesin  sleep  light  finger-tips 
Touched  her  behind  ;  the  pain,  the 

bliss 
Of  a  long  slow  despairing  kiss 
Doubled   the  heat  on  her  feverish 

lips. 
And     down    to    her    heart' s-heart 

smouldering  burned  ; 
From  lips  long  mute  she  heard  her 

name  ; 
Sad  dreams  and  sweet  to  vex  her 

came  ; 
Sighing,  upon  her  pillow,  she  turned. 
Like  a  weary  w^aif  on  a  weary  sea 
That  is  heaving  over  continually, 
And  finds  no  course,  until  for  its 

sake 
The  heart  of  the  silence  begins  to 

ache. 
Unsoothed  from  slumber  she  awoke 
An    hour    ere    dawn.     The    lamp 

burned  faint. 
The  Fiends  glared  at  her  out  of  the 

oak. 
She  rose,  and  fell  at  the  shrine  of 

the  Saint. 
There  with   claspe'd    hands  to  the 

Mother 
Of    many  sorrows,   in  sorrow,  she 

prayed  ; 


Till  all  things  in  the  room  melted 

into  each  other, 
And  vanished  in  gyres  of  flickering 

shade, 
Leaving  her  all  alone,  with  the  fa2e 
Of  the  Saint  growing  large  in  its  one 

bright  place. 
Then  on  a  sudden,  from  far,  a  fear 
Through   all  her  heart    its    horror 

drew, 
As  of  something  hideous   growing 

near. 
Cold  fingers  seemed  roaming  through 

her  damp  hair  ; 
Her  lips  were  locked.     The  pov/er  of 

prayer 
Left  her.     She  dared  not  turn.     She 

knew. 
From  his  panel  atilt  on  the  wall  up 

there. 
The    grim    Earl    was    gazing    her 

through  and  through. 

But  when   the    casement,    a  grisly 

square. 
Flickered  with  day,  she  flung  it  wide, 
And  looked  below.     The  shore  was 

bare. 
In  the  mist  tumbled  the  dismal  tide. 
One  ghastly  pool  seemed  solid  white; 
The  forke'd  shadow  of  the  thorn 
Fell  through  it,  like  a  raven  rent 
In  the  steadfast  blank  down  which 

it  went. 
The    blind   world    slowly    gathered 

sight. 
The  sea  was  moaning  on  to  morn. 

And  the  Summer  into  the  Autumn 

waned. 
And  under  the  watery  Hyades 
The  gray  sea  swelled,  and  the  thick 

rained, 
And  the  land  was  darkened  by  slow 

degrees. 
But  oft,  in  the  low  West,  the  day 
Smouldering  sent  up  a  sullen  flame 
Along  the  dreary  waste  of  gray. 
As  though  in  that  red  region  lay, 
Heaped  up,  like  Autumn  weeds  and 

flowers 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


409 


For  fire,  its  thorny  fruitless  hours, 
And  God  said,  '*  burn  it  all  away  ! " 

When  all  was  dreariest  in  the  skies, 
And  the  gusty  tract  of  twilight  mut- 
tered, 
A  strange  slow  smile  grew  into  her 

eyes, 
As  though  from  a  great  way  off  it 

came 
And  was  weary  ere  down  to  her  lips 

it  fluttered. 
And  turned  into  a  sigh,  or  some  soft 

name 
Whose  syllables  sounded  likest  sighs. 
Half    smothered    in    sorrow   before 

they  were  uttered. 
Sometimes,  at  night,  a  music  was 

rolled — 
A  ripple  of  silver  harp-strings  cold— 
Froni    the    halls    below   where  the 

Minstrel  sung, 
With  the  silver  hair,  and  the  golden 

tongue, 
And  the  eyes  of  passionless,  peaceful 

blue 
(Like  twilight  which  faint  stars  gaze 

through), 
Wise  with  the  years  which  no  man 

knew. 
And  first  the  music,  as  though  the 

wings 
Of  some  blind  angel  were  caught  in 

the  strings, 
Fluttered  with  weak  endeavor  :  anon 
The  uncaged  heart  of  music  grew 

bold 
And  cautiously  loosened,  length  by 

length, 
The  golden  cone  of  its  great  under- 
tone, 
Like  a  strong  man  using  mild  lan- 
guage to  one 
That  is  weaker,  because  he  is  sure  of 

his  strength. 

But  once — and  it  was  at  the  fall  of 

the  day,  [seem 

When  she,  if  she  closed  her  eyes,  did 

To  be  wandering  far,  in  a  sort  of 

dream, 


With     some     lost     shadow,    away, 

away, 
Down  the  heart  ol   a  golden  land 

which  she 
Remembered  a  great  way  over  the 

sea, 
There  came  a  trample  of  horses  and 

men  ; 

bio- 
Gate  ; 
Then    a    clattering  noise  ;    then    a 

pause  ;  and  then, 
With   the  sudden  jerk  of  a  heavy 

w^eight, 
And  a  wrangling  and  jangling  and 

clinking  and  clanking. 
The  sound  of  the  falling  of  cable  and 

chain  ; 
And   a    grumbling   over    the    dewy 

planking 
That  shi'ieked   and  sung  with   the 

weight  and  strain  ; 
And  the  rough  Seneschal  bawled  out 

in  the  halJ, 
''  The  Earl  and  the  Devil  are  come 

back  again  ! " 

Her  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment 

or  more. 
Then  suddenly  tugged,  and  strained, 

and  tore 
At  the  roots,  which  seemed  to  give 

way  beneath. 
She  rushed  to  the  window,  and  held 

her  breath. 
High  up  on  the  beach  were  the  long 

black  ships 
And  the  brown  sails  hung  from  the 

masts  in  strips  : 
And  the  surf  was  whirled  over  and 

over  them, 
And  swept  them  dripping  from  stern 

to  stem. 
Within,  in  the  great  square  court  be- 
low. 
Were  a  hundred  rough-faced  men, 

or  so. 
And    one    or    two   pale   fair-haired 

slaves 
Whom   the  Earl  Imd   brought  over 

the  winter  waves. 


416 


THE  EARL'S  RETURI^. 


There    was    a    wringing    of    horny 

hands  ; 
And  a  swearhig  of  oaths  ;  and  a  great 

deal  of  laughter  ; 
The  grim  Earl  growling  his  hoarse 

commands 
To  the  Warden  that  followed  him 

growling  after  ; 
A  lowing  of  cattle  along  the  wet 

sands  ; 
And  a  plashing  of  hoofs  on  the  slip- 
pery rafter, 
As     the     long-tailed     hlack-maned 

horses  each 
Went  over  the  bridge  from  the  gray 

sea-beach. 

Then  quoth  the  grim  Earl,  *' fetch 

me  a  stoop  ! '' 
And  they  brought  him  a  great  bowl 

that  dripped  from  the  brim, 
Which  he  seized  upon  with  a  satis- 
fied whoop, 
Drained,  and  flung  at  the  head  of 

him 
That  brought  it ;  then,  with  a  laugh 

like  a  howl, 
Stroked  his  beard  ;    and  strode  in 

through  the  door  with  a  growl. 
Meanwhile  the  pale  lady  grew  white 

and  whiter. 
As  the  poplar  pales  when  the  keen 

winds  smite  her  : 
And,  as  the  tree  sways  to  the  gust, 

and  heaves 
Quick  ripples  of  white  alarm  up  the 

leaves, 
So  did  she  seem  to  shrink  and  reel 
From  the  casement — one  quiver  from 

head  to  heel 
Of  whitest  fear.     For  she  heard  be- 
low, 
On  the  creaking  stairway  loud  and 

slow. 
Like  drops  that  plunge  audibly  down 

from  the  thunder 
Into  a  sea  that  is  groaning  under, 
The  heavy  foot  of  the  Earl  as  he 

mounted 
Step  after  step  to  the  turret :   she 

counted 


Step  after  step,  as  he  hastened  or 

halted  ; 
Now    clashing    shrill    through    the 

archways  vaulted  ; 
Now  muffled  and  thick  ;  now  loud, 

and  more 
Loud  as  he  came  near  the  Chamber 

door. 
Then  there  fell,  with  a  rattle  and 

shock, 
An  iron  glove  on  the  iron  lock. 
And  the  door  burst  open — the  Earl 

burst  through  it — 
But  she  saw  him  not.     The  window- 
pane, 
Far  off,  grew  large  and  small  again  ; 
The  staggering  light  did  wax  and 

wane. 
Till  there  came  a  snap  of  the  heavy 

brain  ; 
And  a  slow-subsiding  pulse  of  pain  ; 
And  the  whole  world  darkened  into 

rest, 
As    the  grim  Earl    pressed   to  his 

grausome  breast 
His  white    wife.    She  hung  heavy 

there 
On  his  shoulder  without  breath. 
Darkly  filled  with  sleepy  death 
From  her  heart  up  to  her  eyes  ; 
Dead  asleep  :  and  ere  he  knew  it 
(How  Death  took  her  by  surprise 
Helpless  in  her  great  despair) 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair, 
He  kissed  her  icy  brows  :  unwound 
His  rough  arms,  and  she  fell  to  the 

ground. 

"  The  woman  was  fairer  than  she 

was  wise : 
But  the  serpent  was  wiser  than  she 

was  fair : 
For  the  serx>ent  was  lord  in  Paradise 
Or  ever  the  woman  came  there. 
But  when  Eden-gates   were  barred 

amain, 
And  the  fiery  sword  on  guard  in  the 

East, 
The  lion  arose  from  a  long  repose, 
And  quoth  he,  as  he  shook  out  Mi 

royal  mane^ 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN; 


411 


*  Now  I  am  the  strongest  beast.^ 
Had  the  woman  been  loiser  when  she 

IV as  queen 
The  lion    had    never   been  king,   I 

ween. 
But  ever  since  stormsbegan  to  lower 
Beauty  on  earth  hath  been  second  to 

Power.^^ 
Aiul  this  is  the  song  that  the  Minstrel 

sung, 
Wiih  the  silver  hair  and  the  golden 

tongue, 
Who  sung  by  night  in  the  grim  Earl's 

haU. 
And  they  held  him  in  reverence  one 

and  all. 

And  so    she  died, — the    pale-faced 

girl. 
And,  for  nine  days  after  that,  the 

Earl 
Fumed    and    fret,   and    raved    and 

swore, 
Pacing  up  and  down  the  chamber- 

"floor, 
And  tearing  his  black  beard  as  he 

went, 
In  the  fit  of  his  sullen  discontent. 
And  the  Seneschal  said  it  was  fear- 
ful to  hear  him  ; 
And    not    even    the    weather-worn 

Warden  went  near  him  ; 
And  the  shock-headed  Pages  huddled 

anear, 
And  bit  their  white  lips  till  they  bled, 

for  fear. 

But  at  last  he  bade  them  lift  her 
lightly. 

And  bury  her  by  the  gray  sea-shore, 

Where  the  winds  that  blew  from  her 
own  land  nightly 

Might  wail  round  her  grave  through 
the  wild  rocks  hoar. 

So  they  lifted  her  lightly  at  dead  of 
night. 

And  bore  her  down  by  the  long  torch- 
light,— 

Lank-haired  faces,  sallow  and  keen, 

That  burned  out  of  the  glassy  pools 
between  j 


The  splashing  sands  which,  as  they 

plunged  through, 
The  cofiin-Iead  weighed  them  down 

into  ; 
And  their  feet,  as  they  plucked  them 

up,  left  pits 
Wliich  the  water  oozed  into  and  out 

of  by  fits— 
— And  so  to  the  deep-mouthed  bay's 

black  brim, 
Where  the  pale  priests,  all   white- 

stoled  and  dim. 
Lifted   the  cross    and  chanted  the 

hymn. 
That  her  soul  might  have  peace  when 

her  bones  were  dust, 
And  her  name  be  written  among  the 

Just. 

The  Warden  walked  after  the  Sen- 
eschal grim  ; 

And  the  shock-headed  Pages  walked 
after  him  : 

And  with  mattock  and  spade  a  grave 
was  made. 

Where  they  carved  the  cross,  and 
they  wrote  her  name, 

And,  returning  each  by  the  way  that 
he  came, 

They  left  her  under  the  bare  black 
thorn. 

The  salt  sea-wind  sang  shrill  in  the 

head  of  it  ; 
And  the  bitter  night  grew  chill  with 

the  dread  of  it  ; 
When  the  great  round  moon  rose  up 

forlorn 
From  the  reefs,  and  whitened  to- 
wards the  morn. 
For  the  forked  tree,  as  the  bleak 

blast  took  it. 
Howled  through  it,  and  beat  it,  and 

bit  it,  and  shook  it, 
Like  a  living  thing,  bewitched  and 

bedeviled. 
Visibly  shrunk,  and  shuddered  and 

shrivelled. 

And  again  the  swallow,  that  false 
new-comer, 


412 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


Fluttered  over  the  sea  in  the  front 

of  the  summer  ; 
A  careless  singer,  as  he  should  be 
That  only  skinimeth  the  mighty  sea; 
Dipped  his  wings   as  he  came  and 

went, 
And    chirruped    and    twittered  for 

heart's  content, 
And  built  on  the  new-made  grave. 

But  when 
The  Summer  was  over  he  flew  back 

again. 

And  the  Earl,  as  years  went  by,  and 

his  life 
Grew  listless,  took  him  another  wife : 
And  the  Seneschal  grim  and   the 

Warden  gray 
Walked  about  in  their  wonted  way  : 
And    the    lean-jawed,   shock-haired 

Pages  too 
Sung  and  swilled  as  they  used  to  do. 
And   the  grooms  and   the    squires 

gamed  and  swore 
And  quarrelled  again, as  they  quar- 
relled before  ; 
And  the  flowers  decayed  in  their 

dismal  beds, 
And  dropped   off    from  their    lean 

shanks  one  by  one. 
Till  nothing  was  left  but  the  stalks 

and  the  heads. 
Clumped  into  heaps,  or  ripped  into 

shreds, 
To  steam  into  salt  in  the  sickly  sun. 

And  the  cattle  lowed   late  up  the 

glimmering  plain, 
Or  dipped  knee-deep,  and  splashed 

themselves 
In  the  pools  spat  out  by  the  spiteful 

main. 
Wallowing    in    sandy    dykes    and 

delves  : 
And  the  blear-eyed  filmy    sea    did 

boom 
With  his  old  mysterious  hungering 

sound  : 
And  the    wet  wind   wailed  in   the 

chinks  of  the  tomb. 
Till    the    weeds   in    the  suif    were 

drenched  and  drowned. 


But  once  a  stranger  came  over  the 

wave, 
And  paused  by  the  pale-faced  Lady's 

grave. 

It  was  when,  just  about  to  set, 

A  sadness  held  the  sinking  sun. 

The  moon  delayed  to  shine  as  yet  : 

The  Ave-Mary  chime  was  done  : 

And  from  the  bell-tower,  leaned  the 
ringers  ; 

And  in  the  chancel  paused  the  sing- 
ers. 

With  lingering  looks  and  claspe'd 
fingers  : 

And  the  day  reluctantly  turned  to 
his  rest. 

Like  some  untold  life,  that  leaves 
exprest 

But  the  half  of  its  hungering  love 
ere  it  close  : 

So  he  went  sadly  toward  his  repose 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  slumbrous 
waves 

Kindled  far  off  in  the  desolate  W^est. 

And  the  breeze  sprang  up  in  the  cool 
sea- caves, 

The  castle  stood  with  its  courts  in 
shade, 

And  all  its  toothed  towers  imprest 

On  the  sorrowful  light  that  sunset 
made, — 

Such  a  light  as  sleeps  shut  up  in  the 
breast 

Of  some  pining  crimson-hearted 
rose. 

Which,  as  you  gaze  at  it,  grows  and 
grows 

And  all  the  warm  leaves  overflows  ; 

Leaving  its  sweet  source  still  to  be 
guest. 

The  crumpled  shadow  of  the  thorn 

Crawled  over  the  sand-heaps  rag- 
gedly, 

And  over  the  gray  stone  cross  for- 
lorn, [there 

And   on   to  that  one  man  musing 

Moveless,  while  o'er  him  the  night 
crept  on, 

And  the  hot  yellow  stars  slowly,  one 
after  one, 


THE  EARTS  RETURN. 


413 


Mounted  into  the  dark  blue  air 
And    brightened,    and    brightened. 

Tlien  suddenly, 
And  sadly  and  silently, 
Down  the  dim  breezy  brink  of  the 

sea  sank  the  sun. 

Ere  the  moon  was  abroad,  the  owl 
Made  himself  heard  in  the  echoing 

tower 
Three  times,   four  times.     The  bat 

with  his  cowl 
Came  and  went  round  the  lonely 

Bower 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Earl's  lost 

Lady. 
There  night  after  night,  for  years,  in 

vain 

linge 

through  the  pane. 
And  missed  the  face  she  used  to  find 

there, 
AYhite  and  wan  like  some  mountain 

flower 
In  its  rocky  nook,  as  it  paled  and 

pined  there. 
Only  known  to  the  moon  and  the 

wind  there, 
liights  flitted  faint  in  the  halls  down 

lower 
From    lattice  to   lattice,    and   then 

glowed  steady. 

The  dipping  gull :  and  the  long  gray 

pool  : 
And  the  reed  that  shows  which  w^ay 

the  breeze  blows  cool. 
From  the  wide  warm  sea  to  the  lov/ 

black  land  : 
And  the  wave  makes  no  sound  on 

the  soft  yellow  sand  : 
But  the  inland  shallows  sharp  and 

small 
Are  swarmed  about  with  the  sultry 

midge. 
And  the  land  is  still,  and  the  ocean 

still  : 
And  the  weeds  in  the  rifted  rocks  at 

will 
Move  on  the  tide,  and  float  or  glide. 
And  into  the  silent  western  side 


Of  the  heaven  the  moon  begins  to 

fall. 
But  is  it  the  fall  of  a  plover's  call 
That   is   answered  warily,   low    yet 

shrill, 
From  the  sand-heapt  mound  and  the 

rocky  ridge  ? 
And  now  o'er   the    dark  plain,  so 

wild  and  wide 
Falls  the  note  of  a  horn  from  the  old 

drawbridge. 

Who  is  it  that  waits  at  the  castle- 
gates  ? 
Call  in   the  minstrel,   and  fill    the 

bowl. 
Bid  him  loose  the  great  music  and 

let  the  song  roll. 
Fill  the  bowl. 
i  And  first,  as  was  due,  to  the  Earl  he 

bowed  : 
Next  to  all  the  Sea-chieftains,  blithe 
i  friends  of  the  Earl's  : 

i  Then  advanced  through  the  praise 
j  of  the  murmuring  crowd, 

I  And  sat  down,  as   they  bade   him, 
!  and  all  his  black  curls 

I  Bowed  over  his   harp,  as  in  doubt 
j  which  to  choose 

I  From  the    melodies    coiled    at    his 
j  heart.     For  a  man 

j  O'er  some  Beauty    asleep   for  one 

moment  might  muse, 
Half  in  love,  ere  he  woke  her.     So 

ere  he  began. 
He  paused  over  his  song.    And  they 

brought  him,  the  Squires, 
A  heavy  gold  cup  with  the  red  wine 

ripe  in  it, 
I  Then  wave  over  Mave  of  the  sweet 
I  silver  wires 

j  'Gan  ripple,  and  the  minstrel  took 
1  heart  to  begin  it. 

I  A  harper  that  harps  through  moun- 

j  tain  and  glen, 

I  Wanderii]g,     wandering    the    wide 

world  over. 
Sweetest  of  singers,  yet  saddest  of 

men, 
His  soul's  lost  Lady  in  vain  to  dis- 
cover. 


414 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN". 


Most    fair    and    most  frail    of    tlie 

daugliters  of  men, 
O  blest  and  O  curst,  the  man  that 

should  love  her  ! 
Who  has  not  loved  ?   and  who  has 

not  lost  ? 
Wherever  he  wander,  the  wide  world 

over, 
Singing    by    city,    and    castle,   and 

plain, 
Abiding  never,  forever  a  rover, 
Each  man  that  shall  hear  him  will 

swear  almost 
In  the  minstrel's  song  that  his  heart 

can  discover 
The  self-same  lady  by  whom  it  was 

crost, 
For  love  is  love  the  wide  world  over. 

What  shall  he  liken  his  love  unto  ? 
Have  you  seen  some  cloud  the  sun 

sets  through, 
When  the  lingering  night  is  close  at 

hand  ? ' 
Have  you  seen  some  rose  lie  on  the 

snow  ? 
Or  a  summer  bird  in  a  winter  land  ? 
Or  a  lily  dying  for  dearth  of  dev\'  ? 
Or  a  pearl    sea-cast    on    a    barren 

strand  ? 
Some  garden  never  sunshine  warms 
Nor  any  tend  ?  some  lonely  tree 
That  stretches  bleak  its  barren  arms 
Turned  inland  from  the  blighting 

sea  ? 
Her  cheek  was  pale  :  her  face  was 

fair  : 
Her  heart,  he  sung,  was  weak  and 

warm  ; 
All  golden  was  the  sleepy  hair 
That  floated  round  about  her  form. 
And  hid  the    sweetness    breathing 

there. 
Her  eyes  were  wild,  like  stars  that 

shine 
Far  off  in  summer  nights  divine  : 
But    her    smile  —  it    was    like    the 

golden  wine  j 

Poured  into  the  spirit,  as  into  a  cup, 
With  passion  brimming  it  up  and 

up, 


And    marvellous    fancies    fair    and 

fine. 
He  took  her  hair   to  make    sweet 

strings  : 
He  hid  her  smile  deep  in  his  song. 
This  makes  so  rich  the  tune  he  sings 
That  o'er    the    world  'twill   linger 

long. 

There  is  a  land  far,  far  away  from 

yours. 
And  thei-e  the  stars  are  thrice  as 

bright  as  these. 
And  there   the   nightingale  strange 

music  pours 
All  day  out  of  the  hearts  of  myrtle- 
trees. 
There    the    voice    of    the    cuckoo 

sounds  never  forlorn 
As  you  hear  it  far  off  through  the 

deep  purple  valleys 
And  the  fire-fly  dances  by  night  in 

the  corn. 
And   the  little  round  owls  in  the 

long  cypress  alleys 
Whoop  for  joy  when  the  moon  is 

born.  [tree, 

There  ripen  the  olive  and  the  tulip 
And  in  the  sun  broadens    the  green 

prickly  pear  ; 
And  the    bright   galingales    in  the 

grass  you  may  see  ; 
And  the  vine,  with  her  royal  blue 

globes,  dwelleth  there, 
Climbing  and  hanging  deliciously 
By  every  doorway  and  lone  latticed 

chamber. 
Where  the  damsel-fly  flits,  and  the 

heavy  brown  bee 
Hums  alone,  and  the  quick  lizzards 

rustle  and  clamber. 
And     all    things,    there,    live    and 

rejoice  together, 
From  the  frail  peach  blossom  that 

first  appears 
When  birds  are  about  in  the  blue 

summer  weather, 
To  the  oak  that  has  lived  through 

his  eight  hundred  years. 
And   the    castles   are   built   on  th^ 

hills,  not  the  plains. 


THE  EARVS  RETURN: 


415 


(And  the  wild    wind-flowers    burn 

about  in  tlie  courts  there) 
They  are  wliite  and  undreuched  by 

the  gray  winter  rains. 
And  the   swallows,   and  all  things, 

are    blithe     at     their     sports 

there. 
O  for  one    moment,   at    sunset,   to 

stand 
Far,  far  away,  in  that  dear  distant 

land 
Wlience  they  bore  her, — the  loveliest 

lady  that  ever 
Crost   the   bleak  ocean.     O,   never- 
more, never, 
Shall  she  stand  with  her  feet  in  the 

warm  dry  grasses 
Where  the  faint  balm-heaving  breeze 

heavily  passes 
And   the    white    lotus-flower   leans 

lone  on  the  river. 

Rare  were  the  gems  whis  h  she  had 

for  her  dower. 
But   all  the    wild-flowers    she    left 

behind  her. 
— A  broken  heart  and  a  rose-roofed 

bovver. 
O  oft,  and  in  many  a  desolate  liour, 
The  cold  strange  faces  she  sees  shall 

remind  her 
Of  hearts  that   were   warmer,    and 

smiles  that  were  kinder, 
Lost,   like   the   roses   they  plucked 

from  her  bower  ! 
Lonely  and  far  from  her  own  land 

they  laid  her  ! 
— A  swallow  flew  over  the  sea  to 

find  her. 
Ah  cold,  cold  and  narrow,  the  bed 

that  they  made  her  ! 
The   swallow   went   forth  with  the 

summer  to  find  her. 
The  summer  and  the  swallow  came 

back  o'er  the  sea, 
And   strange   were  the  tidings  the 

bird  brought  to  me. 

xVnd  the  minstrel  sung,  and  they 
praised  and  listened, — 

Gazed  and  prnised  while  the  min- 
strel sung. 


Flushed   was  each  cheek,  and  each 

fixt  eye  glistened, 
And  husht  was   each   voice   to  the 

minstrel's  tongue. 
But  the  Earl  grew  paler  more  and 

more 
As    the    song  of   the  Singer    grew 

louder  and  clearer, 
And  so    dumb    was    the   hall,   you 

might  hear  tlie  roar 
Of  the  sea  in  its  pauses  grow  nearer 

and  diearer. 
And  .  .  .  hush  !  hush  !  hush  ! 
O  was  it  the  wind  ?   or  was  it  the 

rush 
Of  the   restless  waters  that  tumble 

and  splash 
On  the  wild   sea-rocks  ?  or  was   it 

the  crash 
Of  stones  on  the  old  wet  bridge  up 

there  ? 
Or  the  sound  of  the  tempest  come 

over  the  main  ? 
— Nay,  but  just  now  the  night  was 

fair. 
Was  it  the  march  of  the  midnight 

rain 
Clattering  down  in  the  courts  ?  or 

the  crash 
Of    armor    yonder  ?    .    .    .    Listen 

again  ! 

Can  it  be  lightning  ?  can  it  be  thun- 
der ? 

For  a  light  is  all  round  the  lurid 
hafl 

That  reddens  and  reddens  the  win- 
dows all, 

And  far  away  you  may  hear  the  fall 

As  of  rafter  and  bowlder  splitting 
asunder. 

It  is  not  the  thunder,  and  it  is  not 
the  lightning 

To  which  the  castte  is  sounding  and 
brightening, 

But  something  worse  than  lightning 
or  thunder  ; 

For  what  is  this  that  is  coming  yon- 
der ? 

Which  way  ?    Here  !    Where  ? 
Call  the  men  !  ...  Is  it  there  ? 


4if> 


THE  EARnS  RETURN". 


Call  them  out  !    Ring  the  bell  ! 
Ring  the  Fiend  back  to  Hell  ! 
Ring,  ring  the   alarum  for  mercy  ! 

.  .  .  Too  late  ! 
It  has  crawled  up  the  walls — it  has 

burst  in  the  gate — 
It  looks   through   the    windows — it 

creeps  near  the  hall — 
Near,  more  near — red  and  clear — 
It  is  here  ! 
Now  the  saints  save  us  all  ! 

And  little,  in  truth,  boots  it  ringing 

the  bell. 
For  the  fire  is  loose  on  its  way  one 

may  tell 
By  the  hot  simmering  whispers  and 

humming  up  ihere 
In  the  oak-beams  and  rafters.     Now 

one  of  the  Squiies 
His  elbow  hath  thrust  through  the 

half-smouldered  door, — 
8r.ch  a    hole   as    some  rat  for  his 

brown  wife  might  bore, — 
And    straightway   in    snaky,   white 

wavering  spires 
The  thin  smoke  twirls  through,  and 

spreads  eddying  in  gyres 
Here  and  there  toucht  with  vanish- 
ing tints  from  the  glare 
That  has   swathed  in  its  rose-light 

the  sharp  turret  stair. 
Soon  the  door  ruined  through  :  and 

in  tumbled  a  cloud 
Of  black  vapor.     And  first  'twas  all 

blackness,  and  then 
The    quick    forke'd   fires    leapt    out 

from  their  shroud 
In   the  blackness  :    and  through  it 

rushed  in  the  armed  men 
From    the    court-yard.      And  then 

there  was  flying  and  fighting, 
And  praying  and  cursing, — confusion 

confounded. 
Each  man,  at  wild  hazard,  through 

smoke  ramparts  smiting, 
Has  struck  ...  is  it  friend  ?   is  it 

foe  ?    Who  is  wounded  ? 

But  the  Earl, — who  last  saw  him  ? 
Who  cares  ?  who  knows  ? 


Some  one,  no  doubt,  by  the  weight 

of  his  blows. 
And   they   all,   at  times,  heard  his 

oath — so  they  swore : — 
Such   a  cry   as  some    speared   wild 

beast  might  give  venL  to 
When  the  lean  dogs  are  on  him,  and 

forth  with  that  roar 
Of  desolate  wrath,  the  life  is  sent 

too. 
If  he  die,  he  will  die  with  the  dying 

about  him. 
And  his  red  wet  sword  in  his  hand, 

never  doubt  him  : 
If  he  live,   perchance  he  will  bear 

his  new  bride 
Through  them  all,  past  the  bridge, 

to  the  wild  seaside. 
And    there,    whether    he  leave,   or 

keep  his  wife  still. 
There's  the  free  sea  round  him,  new 

lands,  and  new  life  still. 

And  .  .  .  but  ah,  the  red  light  there ! 

And  high  up  and  higher 
The  soft,  warm,  vivid  sparkles  crowd 

kindling,  and  wander 
Far  away  down  the  breathless  blue 

cone  of  the  night. 
Saints  !  can  it  be  that  the  ships  are 

on  fire. 
Those  fierce  hot  clots    of    crimson 

light. 
Brightening,     whitening      in      the 

distance  yonder  ? 
Slowly  over  the  slumbrous  dark 
Up  from  those  fountains  of  fire  spark 

on  spark 
(You    might    count    them    almost) 

floats  silent  :  and  clear 
In  the  steadfast  glow  the  great  cross- 
beams. 
And  the   sharp  and  delicate  masts 

show  black  ; 
While    wider    and  higher    the    red 

light  streams. 
And  oozes  and  overflows  at  the  back. 
Then  faint  through  the  distance  a 

sound  you  hear. 
And  the  bare  poles  totter  and  dis- 
appear. 


THE  EARUS  RETURN. 


417 


Of  llie  Earl,  in  truth,  the  Seneschal    Wavering,    wavering,     to    feel    the 


swore 
(And  over  the    ocean  this    tale  he 

bore) 
That  when,  as  he  fled  on  that   last 

wild  night, 


stream 
Wind,   and  gurgle,  and  sound   and 

gleam. 
And  who  would  very  much  fear  to 

expir< 


He  had  gained  the  other  side  of  the  i  By  steel,  in  the  front  of  victorious 

moat,  I  slaughter, 

Dripping,    he    shook    off  his     wet  >  The   blithe   battle  about    him,   and 

leathern  coat,  !  comrades  in  call  ? 

And   turning    round    beheld,   from  \  But  to  die  by  fire — 

basement  j  O  that  night  in  the  hall  ! 

To  cope,  the  castle  swathed  in  light,  | 


And,  revealed  in  the  glare   through 

My  Lady's  casement, 
He  saw,   or  dreamed  he  saw,  this 

sight — 


And  the  castle  burned  from  base  to 

top. 
^ou  had  thought  that  the  fire  would 
never  stop, 
^       ^  For  it  roared  like  the  great  north- 

Two  forms  (and  one  for  the  Earl's  he  j  wind  in  the  pines, 

knew,  ^nd   shone    as  the    boreal    meteor 


By  the  long  shaggy  beard  and  the 
broad  back  too) 

Struggling,  grappling,  like  things  half 
human. 

The  other,  he  said,  he  but  vaguely 
distinguished, 

When  a  sound  like  the  shriek  of  an 
agonized  woman 

Made  him  shudder,  and  lo,  all  the 
vision  was  gone  ! 

Ceiling  and  floor  had  fallen  through. 

In  a  glut  of  vomited  flame  ex- 
tinguished ; 

And  the  still  fire  rose  and  broadened 


shines 

Watched  by  wild  hunters  in  shudder- 
ing bands, 

When  wolves  are  about  in  the  icy 
lands. 

From  the  sea  you  might  mark  for  a 
space  of  three  days, 

Or  fainter  or  fiercer,  the  dull  red 
blaze. 

And  when  this  ceased,  the  sm.oke 
above  it 

Hung  so  heavy  not  even  the  wind 
seemed  to  move  it ; 

So  it  glared  and  groaned,  and  night; 
after  night 

Smouldered,  —  a  terrible  beacon- 
light. 


How  fearful  a  thing  is  fire  !  I 

You  might  make  up  your  mind  to  die  i 

by  water  I 

A  slow  cool  death,— nay,  at  times,  :  Now  the  Earl's  old  minstrel, —  he 

when  weary  I  that  had  sung 

Of  pains  that  pass  not,  and  pleasures  '  His  youth  out  in   those  halls, — the 

that  pall,  I  man  beloved,  [tongue, 

When  the  temples  throb,   and  the    With  the  silver  hair  and  the  golden 


heart  is  dreary 
And  life  is  dried  up,  you  could  even 

desire 
Through  the  flat  green  weeds  to  fall 

and  fall 
Half  asleep    down  the  green  light 

under  them  all, 
As  in  a  dream,  while  all  things  seem 


They  bore  him  out  from  the  fire  ;  but 

he  roved 
Back  to  the  stifled  courts  ;  and  there 
They    watched  him    hovering,   day 

after  day. 
To  and  fro,  with  his  long  white  hair 
And  his  gold  harp,  chanting  a  lonely 

lay; 


4;  a 


4  sours  LOSS. 


Chanting  and  changing  it  o'er  and 

o'er, 
Like  the  mournful  mad  melodious 

breath 
Of  some  wild  swan  singing  himself  to 

death, 
As  he  floats  down  a  strange  land 

leagues  away. 
One    day  the    song    ceased.      They 

heard  it  no  more. 

Did  you  ever  an  Alpine  eagle  see 
Come  dov,-n  from  flying  near  the  sun 
To  find  his  eyrie  all  undone 
On  lonely  clitls  where  chance  hath 

led 
Some  spying    thief    the    brood    to 

plunder  ? 
How  hangs  he  desolate  overhead, 
And  circling  now  aloft,  now  under, 
His  ruined  home  screams  round  and 

round, 
Then    drops  flat    fluttering  to    the 

ground. 
So  moaning  round  the  roofs  they  saw 

him, 
With  his  gleaming    harp    and  his 

vesture  white  :  [ing 

Going,  and  coming,  and  ever  return- 
To  those  chambers,  emptied  of  beauty 

and  state 
And  choked    with     blackness    and 

ruin  and  burnina;  : 


Then,    as   some  instinct   seemed   to 

draw  him, 
Like  hidden  hands  down  to  his  fate, 
He  paused,  plunged,  dropped  forever 

from  sight  ; 
And  a  cone  of  smoke  and  sparkles 

rolled  up, 
As  out  of  some  troubled  crater-cup 

As  for  the  rest,  some  died  ;    some 

fled 
Over  the  sea,  nor  e^-er  returned. 
But  until  to  the  living  return   the 

dead. 
And  they  each  shall  stand  and   take 

their  station 
Again  at  the  last  great  conflagration, 
Never  more  will  be  seen  the  Earl  or 

the  stranger. 
No  doubt  there  Is  much  here  that's 

fit  to  be  burned. 
Christ  save  us  all  in  that  day  from 

the  danger  ! 
And  this  is  why  these  fishermen  sfiv. 
Sitting  alone  in  their  boats  on  tl.. 

bay, 
When  the  moon  is  low  in  the  wild 

windy  nights. 
They  hear  strange  sounds,  and  see 

strange  sights. 
Spectres  gathering  all  forlorn 
Under  the  boughs  of  this  bare  black 

thorn. 


A  SOUL'S  LOSS. 


"If  Beauty  have  a  soul  this  is  not  she."— Troilus  and  Cressida. 


'TwiXT  the  Future  and  the  Past 
There's  a  moment.     It  is  o'er. 

Kiss  sad  hands  !  we  part  at  last. 
I  am  on  the  other  shore. 

Fly,  stern  Hour  !  and  hasten  fast. 
Nobler  things  are  gone  before. 

From  the  dark  of  dying  years 

Grows  a  face  with  violet  eyes, 
Tremulous  through  tender  tears, — 


Warm  lips  heavy  with  rich  sighs,— 
Ah,  they  fade  !  it  disappears, 
And  with  it  my  whole  heart  dies  ! 

Dies     .  .  and  this  choked  world  is 
sickening  ; 
Truth  has  nowhere  room  for  breath. 
Crusts  of  falsehood,  slowly  thicken- 
ing 
From  the  rottenness  bentath 


A  sours  LOSS. 


These  rank  social  forms,  are   quick- 
ening 
To  a  loathsome  life-in-death. 

0  those  devil's  market-places  ! 
Knowing,  nightly,  she  wa   there, 

Can  I  marvel  that  the  traces 
On  her  spirit  are  not  fair  ? 

1  forgot  that  air  debases 

When  I  knew   she   breathed  such 


This  a  fair  immortal  spirit 

For     which    God     prepared    his 
spheres  ? 
What  !  shall  this  the  stars  inherit? 

And  the  worth  of  honest  tears  ? 
A  fool's  fancy  all  its  mirth  i 

A  fool's  judgment  all  its  fears  ! 

No,  she  loves  no  other  !    No, 
That  is  lost  which  she  gave  me. 

Is  this  comfort, — that  I  know 
All  her  spirit's  poverty  ? 

When  that  dry  soul  is  drained  low. 
His  who  wills  the  dregs  may  be  ! 

Peace  !    I  trust  a  heart  forlorn 
Weakly  upon  boisterous  speech. 

Pity  were  more  fit  ti  an  scorn. 

Fingered      moth,      and      bloomless 
peach  ! 

Gathered  rose  Avithout  a  thorn, 
Set  to  fleer  in  all  men's  reach  ! 

I  am  clothed  Mith  her  disgrace. 

O  her  shame  has  made  my  own  ! 
O  I  reel  from  my  high  place  ! 

All  belief  is  overthrown. 
What  !    This  whirligig  of  lace, 

This  is    the  Queen    that  I  have 
known  ? 

Starry  Queen  that  did  confer 
Beauty  on  the  barren  earth  ! 

Woodlands,  wandered  oft  with  her 
In  her  sadness  and  her  mirth, 

Feeling  her  ripe  influence  stir 
Brought  the  violets  to  birth. 


The  great  golden  clouds  of  even. 
They,    too,    knew     her,    and     the 
host 

Of  the  eternal  stars  in  heaven  ; 
And  I  deemed  I  knew  her  most. 

I,  to  whom  the  Word  was  given 
How  archangels  have  been  lost ! 

Given  in  vain  !  .  .  .  But  all  is  over  ! 

Every  spell  that  bound  me  broken  I 
In  her  eyes  I  can  discover 

Of  th  .t  perisht  soul  no  token. 
I  can  neither  hate  nor  love  her. 

All  my  loss  must  be  unspoken. 

Mourn  I  may,  that  from  her  features 
All  the  angel  light  is  gone. 

But  I  chide  not.     liuman  creatures 
Are  not  angels.     She  was  none. 

Women  have  so  many  natures  ! 
I  think  she  loved  me  well  with 
one. 

All  is  not  with  love  departed. 

Life   remains,  though  toucht  with 
scorn. 
Lonely,  but  not  broken-hearted. 

Nature  changes  not.     The  morn 
Breathes  not    sadder.      Buds   have 
started 
To  white  clusters  on  the  thorn. 

And  to-morow  I  shall  see 
How  the  leaves  their  green  leaves 
sheath 
Have  burst  upon  the  cliestnut-tree. 
And  the  white  rose-bush  beneath 
My  lattice  which,  once  tending,  she 
Made  thrice     sweeter    with    her 
breath, 

Its  black  buds  through    moss    and 
glue 
Will  swell  greener.     And  at  eve 
Winking  bats  will  waver  through 
The  gray  warmth  from    eave  to 
eave. 
While  the  daisy  gathers  dew. 
These  things  grieve  not,  though  1 
grieve. 


420 


A  SOCrVS  LOSS. 


What  of  that  ?  Deep  Nature's  glad- 
ness 
Does  not  help  this  grief  to  less. 
And  the  stars  will  show  no  sadness, 

And  the  llowers  no  heaviness, 
Though  each  thought  should  turn  to 
madness 
'Neath  the  strain  of  its  distress  ! 

No,  if  life  seem  lone  to  me, 
'Tis  scarce  lonelier  that  at  first. 

Lonely  natures  there  must  be. 
Eagles  are  so.     I  was  nurst 

Far  from  love  in  infancy  : 
I  have  sought  to  slake  my  thirst 

At  high  founts  ;  to  fly  alone, 
Haunt  the  heaven,  and  soar,  and 
sing. 
Earth's     warm    joys  I     have     not 
known. 
This  One  heart  held  everything. 
Now  my  eyrie  is  o'erthrown  ! 
As  of  old,  I  spread  the  wing. 

And  rise  up  to  meet  my  fate 
With  a  yet  unbroken  will. 

"When  Heaven  shut  up  Eden-gate, 
Man  was  given  the  earth  to  till. 

There's  a  world  to  cultivate, 
And  a  solitude  to  fill. 

Welcome  man's  old  helpmate,  Toil  ! 
How  may  this    heart's    hurt    be 
healed  ? 
Crush  the  olive  into  oil  ; 
Turn  the  ploughshare  ;    sow  the 
field. 
All  are  tillers  of  the  soil. 
Each  some  harvest  hopes  to  yield. 

Shall  I  perish  with  the  whole 
Of  the  coming  years  in  view 

Unattempted  ?    To  the  soul 

Every  hour  brings  something  new. 

Still  suns  rise  :  still  ages  roll. 
Still  some  deed  is  left  to  do. 

Some  .  .  .  but  what  ?    Small  matter 
now  ! 
For  one  lily  for  her  hair, 


For  one  rose  to  wreathe  her  brow, 

For  one  gem  to  sparkle  there, 
I  had  .  .  .  words,  old  words,  I  know! 
What  was  I,  that  she  should  care- 
How  I  differed  from  the  common 
Crowd    that   thrills    not    to    her 
touch  ? 
How     I    deemed    her    more     than 
human, 
And  had  died  to  crown  her  such  ? 
They  ?       To    them     she     is     mere 
woman. 
O,  her  loss  and  mine  is  much  I 


Fool, 


No 


she    haunts    me    still  ! 
wonder  ! 
Not  a  bud  on  yon  black  bed, 
Not  a  swated  lily  yonder. 

But  recalls  some  fragrance  fled  ! 
Here,  what  marvel  I  should  ponder 
On  the  last  word  which  she  said  ? 

I  must  seek  some  other  place 
Where  free  Nature  knows  her  not: 

Where  I  shall  not  meet  her  face 
In  each  old  familiar  spot. 

There  is  comfort  left  in  space. 
Even  this  grief  may  be  forgot. 

Great  men  reach  dead  hands  unto 
me 
From  the  graves  to  comfort  me. 
Shakspeare's     heart     is     throbbing 
through  me. 
All  man  has  been  man  may  be. 
Plato    speaks   like    one  that    knew 
me. 
Life  is  made  Philosophy. 

Ah,  no,  no  I  while  yet  the  leaf 
Turns,  the  truth  upon  its  pall. 

By  the  stature  of  this  grief, 
Even  Shakspeare  shows  so  small  ! 

Plato  palters  with  relief. 
Grief  is  greater  than  them  all  ! 

They  were  pedants  who  could  speak. 
Grander    souls  have    passed    un- 
heard : 


THE  ARTIST. 


421 


Such  as  found  all  language  weak  ; 

Choosing  rather  to  record  * 
Secrets  before  Heaven  :  nor  break 

Faith  with  angels  by  a  word. 

And   Heaven  heeds    this  wretched- 
ness 

Wliich  I  suffer.     Let  it  be. 
Would  that  I  could  love  thee  less  ! 

I,  too,  am  dragged  down  by  thee. 


Thine — in  weakness — thine- 
Yet  farewell  eternally. 


-ah  yes ! 


Child,  I  have  no  lips  to  chide  thee. 

Take  tlie  blessing  of  a  heart 
(Never  more  to  beat  beside  thee  !) 

Which  in  blessing    breaks.     De- 
part. 
Farewell.     I  that  deified  thee 

Dare  not  question  what  thou  art. 


THE  ARTIST. 


O  Artist,  range  not  over- wide  : 
Lest  what  thou  seek  be  haply  hid 

In  I'ramble  blossoms  at  thy  side, 
Or  shut  within  the  daisy-lid. 

God's  glory  lies  not  out  of  reach. 
The  moss  we  crush  beneath  our 
feet, 
The  pebbles  on  the  wet  sea-beach, 
Have  solemn  meanings  strange  and 
sweet. 

The  peasant  at  his  cottage  door 
May  teach  thee  more  than  Plato 
knew  : 

See  that  thou  scorn  him  not  :  adore 
God  in  him,  and  thy  nature  too. 

Know  well  thy  friends.     The  wood- 
bine's breath, 

The  woolly  tendril  on  the  vine, 
Are  more  to  thee  than  Cato's  death, 

Or  Cicero's  wor   .  to  Catiline. 

The  wild  rose  is  thy  next  in  blood  : 
Share  Nature  with   her,  and  thy 
heart. 

The  kingcups  are  thy  ;.isterhood  : 
Consult  them  duly  on  thine  art. 

Nor  cross  the  sea  for  gems.      Nor 

seek  : 
Be    sought.      Fear    not    to    dwell 

alone. 


Possess  thyself.     Be  proudly  meek. 
See  thou  be  worthy  to  be  known. 

The  Genius  on  thy  daily  ways 
Shall  meet,  and  take  thee  by  the 
hand  : 

But  serve  him  not  as  who  obeys  : 
He  is  thy  slave  if  thou  command  : 

And  blossoms  on  the  blackberry- 
stalks 

He  shall  enchant  as  thou  dost  pass, 
Till  they  drop  gold  upon  thy  walks. 

And  diamonds  in  the  dewy  grass. 

Such  largess  of  the  liberal  bowers 
From  left  to  right  is  grandly  flung, 

What  time  their  subject  blooms  and 
flowers 
King-Poets  walk  in  state  among. 

Be  quiet.     Take  things  as  they  come; 
Each  hour  will  draw  out  some  sur- 
prise. 
With  blessing  let  the  days  go  home  : 
Thou  shalt  have  thanks  from  even- 
ing skies. 

Lean  not  on  one  mind  constantly  : 
Lest,  where  one  stood  before,  two 
fall. 

Something  God  hath  to  say  to  thee 
Worth  hearing  from  the  lips  of  all. 


422 


THE  ARTIST. 


All  things  are  thine  estate  :  yet  must 

Thou  tirst  display  the  title-deeds, 
And  sue  the  world.     Be  strong  :  and 
trust 
High  instincts  more  than  all  the 
"  creeds. 

The  world  of  Thought  is  packed  so 
tight, 
If  thou  stand  up  another  tumbles : 
Heed  it  not,  though  thou  have  to 
fight 
With      giants  ;      whoso     follows 
stumbles. 

Assert  thyself  :  and  by  and  by 
The  world  will  come  and  lean  on 
thee. 
But  seek  not  praise  of  men  :  thereby 
Shall    false    shows    cheat    thee. 
Boldly  be. 

Each  man  was  worthy  at  the  first  : 
God  spake  to  us  ere  we  were  born : 

But  we  forget.  The  land  is  curst  : 
We  plant  the  brier,  reap  the  thorn. 

Remember,  every  man  He  made 

Is  different  :  has  some  deed  to  do, 
Some    work    to    work.     Be    undis- 
mayed, 
Though  thine  be   humble  :  do  it 
too. 

Kot  all  the  wisdom  of  the  schools 
Is  wise  for  thee.     Hast  thou  to 
speak  ? 

No  man  hath  spoken  for  thee.    Rules 
Are  well  :  but  never  fear  to  break 

The  scaffolding  of  other  souls  : 
It  was  not  meant  for  thee  to  mount ; 

Though  it  may  serve  thee.     Separate 
wholes 
Make  up  the  sum  of  God's  account. 

Earth's  number-scale  is  near  us  set  ; 

The  tot;.l  God  alone  can  see  ; 
But  each  some  fraction  :  shall  I  fret 

If    you    see    Four    where   I    saw 
Three  ? 


A  unit's  loss  the  sum  would  mar  ; 

Therefore  if  I  have  One  or  Two, 
I  am  as  rich  as  others  are. 

And  help  the  whole  as  well  as  you. 

This  wild  white  rosebud  in  my  hand 

Hath    meanings    meant  for    me 

alone, 

Which  no  one  else  can  understand  ; 

To  you  it  breathe     with  altered 

tone  : 

How  shall  I  class  its  properties 
For  you  ?  or  its  wise  whisperings 

Interpret  ?     Other  ears  and  eyes 
It  teaches  many  other  things. 

We  number  daisies,  fringe  and  star  : 
We   count  the   cinqfoils  and  the 
poppies  : 
We  know  not  what  they  mean.    We 
are 
Degenerate  copyists  of  copies. 

We  go  to  Nature,  n^::  as  lords. 
But  servants  ;  and  she  treats  us 
thus  : 

Speaks  to  us  with  indifferent  words, 
And  from  a  distance  looks  at  us. 

Let  us  go  boldly,  as  we  ought, 
And  say  to  her,  "  We  are  a  part 

Of  that  supreme  original  Thought 
Which  did  conceive  thee  what  thou 
art  : 

"  We  will  not  have  this  lofty  look  : 
Thou  shalt  fall  down,  and  recog- 
nize 
Thy  kings  :    we  will   write   in   thy 
book. 
Command  thee  with  our  eyes." 

She  hath  usurpt  us.     She  should  be 
Our  model  ;  but  we  have  become 

Her  miniature-painters.      So  when 
we 
Entreat  her  softly  she  is  dumb. 

Nor  serve  the  subject  overmuch  : 
Nor  rhythm  and  rhyme,  nor  color 
and  form. 


THE  ARTIST. 


423 


Know  triilli   lialh  all   great 
such 
As  bliall  with  these  thy  work 
form. 


ices,  I  By  the  mere  act  of  being  fair 

Sets  countless  laws  of  life  in  mo- 
tion : 


m- 


We  ransack  History's  tattered  page: 
We  jirale  of  epoch  and  costume  : 

Call  this,  and  that,  the  Classic  Age  : 
Choose  tunic  now,  now  helm  and 
plume  : 

But  while  we  halt  in  weak  debate 
'Twixt  that  and  this  appropriate 
theme, 
The  offended  wild-flowers  stare  and 
wait, 
The  bird  hoots    at  us   from  the 
stream. 

Next,  as  to  laws.  Wliat's  beautiful 
We  recognize  in  form  and  face  : 

And  judge  it  thus,  and  thus,  by  rule, 
As  perfect  law  brings  perfect  grace : 

If  through  the  effect  we  drag  the 
cause, 

Dissect,  divide,  anatomize, 
Kesults  are  lost  in  loathsome  laws, 

And  all  the  ancient  beauty  dies  : 

Till  we,  instead  of  bloom  and  light, 
iSee  only  sinews,  nerves,  and  veins : 

Nor  will  the  effect  and  cause  unite, 
For  one  is  lost  if  one  remains  : 

But  from  some  higher  point  behold 
This  dense,  perplexing  complica- 
tion ; 

And  laws  involved  in  laws  unfold. 
And  orb  into  thy  contemplation. 

God,  when  he  made  the  seed,  con- 
ceived 
The  flower  ;  and  all  the  work  of 
sun 
And  rain,  before  the  stem  was  leaved. 
In  that  prenatal  thought  was  done ; 

The  girl  who  twines  in  her  soft  hair 
The    orange-flower,    with    love's 
devotion. 


So  thou,  by  one  thought  thoroughly 
great, 
Shalt,  witliout  heed  tliereto,  fulfil 
All  laws  of  art.     Create  !  create  ! 
Dissection  leaves   the  dead  dead 
still. 

All  Sciences  are  branches,  each, 
Of    that    first    science, — AVisdom. 
Seize 
The    true    point    whence,    if    thou 
shouldst  reach 
Thine  arm  out,  thou  may'st  grasp 
all  these, 

And  close  all  knowledge  in  thy  palm. 

As  History  proves  Philosophy  : 
Philosophy,  with  warnings  calm, 

Prophet-like,  guiding  History. 

Burn  catalogues.     Write  thine  own 
books. 
What  need  to  pore  o'er  Greece  and 
Ptome  ? 
When  whoso  through  his  own  life 
looks 
Shall  mid  that  he  is  fully  come. 

Through    Greece    and    Eome,    and 
Middle- Age  : 
Hath  been  by  turns,  ere  yet  full- 
grown, 
Soldier,  and  Senator,  and  Sage, 
And  worn  the  tunic  and  the  gown. 

Cut  the    world  thoroughly  to    the 

heart. 

The  sweet  and  bitter  kernel  crack. 

Have  no  half-dealings  with  thine  art. 

All  heaven  is  waiting  :  turn  not 

back. 

If  all  the  world  for  thee  and  rae 
One  solitary  shape  possessed, 

Wliat  shall  I  say  ?  a  single  tree — 
Whereby  to  type  and  hint  the  resC, 


424 


THE   WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


And  I  could  imitate  the  bark 
And  foliage,  both  in  form  and  hue. 

Or  silvery-gray,  or  brown  and  dark, 
Or  rough  with  moss,  or  wet  with 
dew, 

But  thou,  with  one  form  in  thine 
'  eye, 
Couldst     penetrate     all     forms  : 
possess 
The  soul  of  form  :  and  multiply 
A  million  like  it,  more  or  less, — 

Which  were  the  Artist  of  us  twain  ? 

The  moral's  clear  to  understand. 
Where'er  we  walk,  by  hill  or  plain, 

Is  there  no  mystery  on  the  land  ? 

The  osiered,  oozy  water,  ruffled 
By  fluttering  swifts  that  dip  and 
wink  : 

Deep  cattle  in  the  cowslips  muffled. 
Or  lazy-eyed  upon  the  brink  : 


Or,  when— a  scroll  of  stars — the 
night  [away, 

(By  God  withdrawn)  is  rolled 
The  silent  sun,  on  some  cold  height. 

Breaking  the  great  seal  of  the  day: 

Are  these  not  words  more  rich  than 

ours  ? 

O  seize  their  import  if  you  can  ! 

Our  souls  are  parched  like  withering 

flowers,  [g;^n- 

Our  knowledge  ends  where  it  be- 

While  yet  about  us  fall  God's  dews, 
And  whisper  secrets  o'er  the  earth 

Worth  all  the  weary  years  we  lose 
In  learning  legends  of  our  birth, 

Arise,  O  Artist  !  and  restore 

Their  music  to  the  moaning  winds, 
Love's  broken  pearls  to  life's  bare 
shore, 
And    freshness    to    our   fainting 
minds. 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


THE  EVENING  BEFORE  THE 
FLIGHT. 

Take  the  diamonds  from  my  hair  ! 

Take  the  flowers  from  the  urn  ! 
Fling  the  lattice  wide  !  more  air  ! 

Air — more  air,  or  else  I  burn  ! 

Put  the  bracelets  by.     And  thrust 
Out  of  sight  these  hated  pearls. 

I  could  trample  them  to  dust, 
Though  they  were    his  gift,   the 
Earl's  ! 

Flusht  I  am  ?^  The  dance  it  was. 

Only  that.    'Now  leave  me.  Sweet. 
Take  the  flowers,  Love,  because 

They  will  wither  in  this  heat. 


Good-night,    dearest  !      Leave    the 
door 
Half-way  open  as  you  go. 
— O,  thank  God?  .  .  .  Alone  once 
more. 
Am    I    dreaming?    .  .  .    Dream- 
ing ?  .  .  ,  no  ! 


Still  that  music' underneath 
Works  to  madness  in  my  brain. 

Even  the  roses  seem  to  breathe 
Poisoned  perfmues,  full  of  pain. 


Let  me  think  .  .  ,  my  head  is  ach- 
ing. 

I  have  little  strength  to  think. 
And  I  know  my  heart  is  breaking. 

Yetj  O  love,  I  will  not  shrink  I 


THE   WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


425 


In  his  look  was  such  sweet  sadness. 

And  he  fixed  that  look  on  me. 
I  was  helpless  .  .  .  call  it  madness, 

Call  it  guilt  .  .  .  but  it  must  be. 

I  can  bear  it,  if,  in  losing 
All  things  else,  I  lose  him  not. 

All  the  grief  is  my  own  choosing. 
Can  I'murmur  at  my  lot  ? 

Ah,  the  night  is  bright  and  still 
Over  all  the  fields  I  know 

And  the  chestnuts  on  the  hill  : 
And  the  quiet  lake  below. 

By  that  lake  I  yet  remember 
How,  last  year,  we  stood  together 

One  wild  eve  in  warm  September 
Bright  with  thunder  :  not  a  feather 

Stirred   the   slumbrous   sw^ans  that 
floated 
Past    the    reed-beds,    husht    and 
white  : 
Towers  of  sultry  cloud  hung  moated 
In  the  lake's  unsliaken  light  ; 

Far  behind  us  all  the  extensive 
Woodland  blackened  against  heav- 
en :  [sive  : 

And  we  spoke  not  : — pausing  pen- 
Till  the  thunder-cloud  was  riven. 

And  the  black  wood  whitened  under, 
And  the  storm  began  to  roll. 

And  the  love  laid  up  like  thunder 
Burst  at  once  upon  my  soul . 

There  !  .  .  .  the    moon  is  just    in 
crescent 

In  the  silent  happy  sky. 
And  to-night  the  meanest  peasant 

In  her  light's  more  blest  than  I. 

Other  moons  I  soon  shall  see 
Over  Asian  headlands  green  : 

Ocean-spaces  sparkling  free 
Isles  of  breathless  balm  between. 

And  the  rosy-rising  star 

At  the  setting  of  the  day 
From  the  distant  sandy  bar 

Sbiining  over  Africa  : 


Steering  through  the  glowing  wea- 
ther 

Past  the  tracks  of  crimson  light, 
Down  the  sunset  lost  together 

Far  athwart  the  summer  night. 

"  Canst  thou  make  such  life  thy 
choice. 

My  heart's  own,  my  chosen  one  ?  " 
So  he  whispered  and  his  voice 

Had  such  magic  in  its  tone  ? 

But  one  hour  ago  w^e  parted. 

And  we  meet  again  to-morrow. 
Parted — silent,  and  sad-hearted  ! 

And  we  meet — in  guilt  and  sor- 
row. 

But  we  shall  meet .  .  .  meet,  O  God, 
To  part  never  .  ,  .  the  last  time  ! 

Yes  !  the  Ordeal  shall  be  trod. 
Burning  ploughshares  —  love  and 
crime. 

0  with  him,  with  him  to  wander 
Through     the    wide    world — onlv 

his  ! 
Heart    and    hope    and    heaven    to 
squander 
On  the  wild  wealth  of  his  kiss  I 

Then  ?  .  .  .  like  these  poor  flowers 
that  wither 

In  my  bosom,  to  be  thrown 
Lightly  from  him  any  whither 

When  the  sweetness  all  is  flown  ? 

O,  I  know  it  all,  my  fate  ! 

But  the  gulf  is  crost  forever. 
And  regret  is  born  too  late. 

The  shut  Past  reopens  never. 

Fear  •?  .  .  I  cannot  fear  !  for  fear 
Dies  with  hope  in  every  breast. 

O,  I  see  the  frozen  sneer. 
Careless  smile,  and  callous  jest  i 

But  my  shame  shall  yet  be  worn 
Like  the  purple  of  a  Queen. 

1  can  answer  scorn  with  scorn. 
Fool  !  I  know  not  what  I  mQ 


426 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


Yet  beneath  his  smile  [Ins  smile  !) 
Smiles  less  kind  I  shall  not  see. 

Let  the  whole  wide  world  revile. 
He  is  all  the  world  to  me. 

So  to-night  all  hopes,  all  fears, 
All  the  bright  and  brief  array 

Of  my  lost  youth's  happier  years, 
With  these  gems  I  put  away. 

Gone  !  .  .  so  .  .  .  one  by  one  .  .  . 
all  gone  ! 

Not  one  jewel  I  retain. 
Of  my  life's  wealth.     All  alone 

I  tread  boldly  o'er  my  pain. 

On  to  him  .  .  .  Ah,  me  !  my  child — 
My  own  fair-haired,  darling  boy  ! 

In  his  sleep  just  now  he  smiled. 
All  his  dreams  are  dreams  of  joy. 

How  those  soft  long  lashes  shade 
That  young  cheek  so  huslit  and 
warm, 

Like  a  half-blown  rosebud  laid 
On  the  little  dimpled  arm  1 

He  will  wake  without  a  mother. 

He  will  hate  me  when  he  hears 
From  the  cold  lips  of  another 

All  my  faults  in  after  years. 

None  will  toll  the  deep  devotion 
Wherewith  I  have  brooded  o'er 

His  young  life,  since  its  first  motion 
Made  me    hope    and    pray    once 
more. 

On  my  breast  he  smiled  and  slept, 
Smiled   between  my  wrongs  and 
me, 

Till  the  weak  warm  tears  I  wept 
Set  my  dry,  coiled  nature  free. 

Nay,  .  .  .    my  feverish   kiss  would 
wake  him. 
How  can  I  dare  bless  his  sleep  ? 
They  will   change   him    soon,    and 
make  him 
Like  themselves  that  never  weep  ; 


Fitted  to  the  world's  bad  part  : 
Yet,  with  ail  their  wealth  afford 
him 
Aught  more    rich    than    this    lost 
heart 
Whose  last  anguish  yearns  toward 
him  ? 

Ah,  there's  none  will  love  him  then 
As  I  love  that  leave  him  now  I 

He  will  mix  with  selfisli  men. 
Yes,  he  has  his  father's  brow  ! 

Lie  thou    there,   thou    poor    rose- 
blossom, 

In  that  little  hand  more  light 
Than  upon  this  restless  bosom. 

Whose  last  gift  is  given  to-night. 

God  forgive  me  ! — My  God,  cherish 
His  lone  motherless  infancy  ! 

Would  to-night  that  I  might  perish! 
But  heaven  will  not  let  me  die. 

O  love  !  love  !  but  this  is  bitter  i 
O  that  we  had  never  met  ! 

O  but  hate  than  love  were  fitter  ! 
And  he  too  may  hate  me  yet. 

Yet  to  him  have  I  not  given 
All  life's  sweetness?  .  .  .  fame? 
and  name  ? 

Hope  ?  and  happiness  ?  and  heaven  ? 
Can  he  hate  me  for  my  shame  ? 

"Child,"   he    said,   ''thy    life  was 
glad 

In  the  d arming  of  its  years  ; 
And  love's  morn  should  be  less  sad, 

For  his  eve  may  close  in  tears. 

"Sweet  in  novel  lands."  he  said, 
"  Day  by  day  to  share  delight  ; 

On  by  soft  surprises  led. 
And  together  rest  at  night. 

"  We  will  see  the  shores  of  Greece, 
And  the  temples  of  the  Nile  : 

Sail  where  summer  suns  increase 
Toward  the  south  from  isle  to  isle. 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


427 


"Track  the  first  star  that  swims  on 
Glowing  depths  toward  night  and 
us, 

While  the  heats  of  sunset  crimson 
All  the  purple  Bosphorus. 

"  Leaning  o'er  some  dark  ship-side, 
Watch  the  wane  of  mighty  moons; 

Or  through  starlit  Venice  glide, 
Singing  down  the  blue  lagoons. 

"  So  from  coast  to  coast  we'll  range, 
Growing  nearer  as  we  move 

On  our  charmed    way  ;   each    soft 
change 
Only  deepening  changeless  love." 

'Twas    the    dream    which    I,    too, 
dreamed 

Once,  long  since,  in  days  of  yore. 
Life's  long-faded  fancies  seemed 

At  his  words  to  bloom  once  more. 

The  old  hope,  the  wreckt  belief, 
The  lost  hght  of  vanisht  years. 

Ere  my  heart  was  worn  with  grief, 
Or  my   eyes   were   dimmed  with 
tears  ! 

When,  a  careless  girl,  I  clung 
With  proud  trust  to  my  own  pow- 
e:'s  ; 

Ah,  long  since  I,  too,  was  young, 
I,  too,  dreamed  of  happier  hours  ! 

Whether  this  may  yet  be  so 
(Truth  or  dream )  I  cannot  tell. 

But  where'er  his  footsteps  go 
Turns  my  heart,  I  feel  too  well. 

Ha  !  the  long  night  wears  away. 

Yon  cold  drowsy  star  grows  dim. 
The  long-feared,  long-wisht-for  day 

Comes,  when  I  shall  fly  with  him. 

In  the  laurel  wakes  the  thrush. 

Through  these  dreaming  chambers 
wide 
Not  a  sound  is  stirring.     Hush  ; 

— O,  it  was  my  child  that  cried  ! 


II. 

THE   PORTRAIT. 

Fes,  'tis  she  !  Those  eyes  1  that 
hair 

With  the  self-same  wondrous  hue ! 
And  that  smile— which  was  so  fair, 

Is  it  strange  I  deemed  it  true  ? 

Years,  years,  years  I  have  not  drawn 
Back    this     curtain  !     there    she 
stands 

By  the  terrace  on  the  lawn. 
With  the  white  rose  in  her  hands  ! 

And  about  her  the  armorial 
Scutcheons  of  a  haughty  race, 

Graven  each  with  its  memorial 
Of  the  old  Lords  of  the  Place. 

You,  who  do  profess  to  see 
In  the  face  the  written  mind, 

Look  in  that  face,  and  tell  me 
In  what  part  of  it  you  tlnd 

All  the  falsehood,  and  the  wrong, 
And    the  sin,   which  must  have 
been 

Hid  in  baleful  beauty  long, 
Like  the  worm  that  lurks  unseen. 

In  the  shut  heart  of  the  flower. 

'Tis  the  Sex,  no  doubt  !  And  still 
Some  may  lack  the  means,  the  power, 

There's  not  one  that  lacks  the  will. 

Their  own  way  they  seek  the  Devil, 

Ever  prone  to  the  deceiver  ! 
If  too  deep  I  feel  this  evil 
And  this   shame,  may  God  forgive 
her  ! 

For  I  loved  her, — loved,  ay,  loved 
her 

As  a  man  just  once  may  love. 
I  so  trusted,  so  approved  her, 

Set  her,  blindly,  so  above 

This  poor  world  which  was  about 
her  ! 

And  (so  loving  her)  because, 
With  a  faith  too  high  to  doubt  her, 

I,  forsooth,  but  seldom  was 


428 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


At  her  feet  wil"h  clamorous  praises 
And  protest ed  tenderness 

(These  tliijigs  some  men  can  do), 
phrases 
On  her  face,  perhaps  lier  dress, 

Or  the  flower  she  chose  to  braid 
In  her  hair,— because,  you  see, 

Thinking  love's  best  proved  unsaid, 
And  by  words  the  dignity 

Of  true  feeling's  often  lost, 

I  was  vowed  to  life's  broad  duty  ; 

Man's  great  business  uppermost 
In  my  mind,  not  woman's  beauty; 

Toiling  still  to  win  for  her 
Honor,  fortune,  slate  in  life. 

(•'  Too  much  with  the  Minister, 
And  too  little  with  the  wife  !") 

Just  for  this,  she  fiung  aside 
All  my  toil,  my  heart,  my  name  ; 

Trampled  on  my  ancient  pride, 
Turned  my  honor  into  shame. 

O,  if  this  old  coronet 

Weighed  too  hard  on  her  young 
brow, 
Need  she  thus  dishonor  it. 

Fling  it  in  the  dust  so  low  ? 

But  'tis  just  these  women's  way, — 
All  the  same  the  wide  world  over  ! 

Fooled    by  what's  most  worthless, 
they 
Cheat  in  turn  the  honest  lover. 

And  I  was  not,  I  thank  heaven, 
Made,    as    some,    to    read    them 
through  ; 

Were  life  three  times  longer  evew. 
There  are  better  things  to  do. 

!Sro  !  to  let  a  woman  lie 
Like  a  canker,  at  the  roots 

Of  a  man's  life, — burn  it  dry, 
Nip  the  blossom,  stunt  the  fruits, 

This  I  count  both  shame  and  thrall! 

Who  is  free  to  let  one  creature 
Come  between  himself,  and  all 

The  uue  process  of  his  nature, 


I  While  across  the  world  the  nations 
I      Call  to  us  that  we  should  share 
In  tiieir  griefs,  their  exultations  ? — 
All  they  will  be,  all  they  are  ! 

And  so  much  yet  to  be  done, — 
Wrong   to  root  out,   good    to 
strengthen  ! 

Such  hard  battles  to  be  won  ! 
Such  long  glories  yet  to  lengthen  \ 

'Mid  all  these,  how  small  one  grief, — 
One  wrecked  heart,  whose  hopes 
are  o'er  ! 

For  myself  I  scorn  relief. 
For  the  people  I  claim  more. 

Strange  !    these   crowds  whose    in- 
stincts guide  them 

Fail  to  get  the  thing  they  would, 
Till  we  nobles  stand  beside  them, 

Give  our  names,  or  shed  our  blood. 

From  of  old  this  hath  been  so. 

P'or  we  too  were  with  the  first 
In  the  fight  fought  long  ago 

When  the  chain  of  Charles  was 
burst. 

Who  but  we  set  Freedom's  border 
Wrenched    at    Runnymede    from 
John  ? 
Who  but  we  stand,  towers  of  order, 
'Twixt    the    red    cap    and    the 
throne  ? 

And  they  wrong  us,  England's  Peers, 
Us,  the  vanguard  of  the  land. 

Who  should  say  the  march  of  years 
Makes  us  shrink  at  Truth's  right 
hand. 

'Mid  the  armies  of  Reform, 
To  the  People's  cause  allied, 

We— the  forces  of  the  storm  ! 
We— the  planets  of  the  tide  ! 

Do  I  seem  too  much  to  fret 
At  my  own  peculiar  woe  ? 

Would  to  heaven  I  could  forget 
How  I  loved  her  long  ago  \ 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


429 


As  a  father  loves  a  child, 
So  1  loved  her  :— rather  thus 

Than  as  youth  loves,  when  our  wild 
New-found  passions  master  us. 

And— for  I  was  proud  of  old 
("Tis  my  nature)— doubtless  she 

In  the  man  so  calm,  so  cold. 
All  fhe  heart's  warmth  could  not 
see. 

Nay,  I  blame  myself — nor  lightly, 
Whose  chief  duty  was  to  guide 

Her  young  careless  life  more  rightly 
Through  the  perils  at  her  side. 

Ah,  but  love  is  blind  !  and  I 
Loved  her  blindly,   blindly  !  .   .    . 

Well, 
Who  that  ere  loved  trustfully 

Such  strange  danger  could  fore- 
tell ? 

As  some  consecrated  cup 
On  its  saintly  shrine  secure, 

All  my  Fife  seemed  lifted  up 
On  that  heart  I  deemed  so  pure. 

Well,  for  me  there  yet  remains 
Labor — that's    much  :    then,  the 
state  : 

And,  what  pays  a  thousand  pains. 
Sense  of  right  and  scorn  of  fate. 

And,  O,  more  !  .  .  .  my  own  brave 
boy, 

With  his  frank  and  eager  brow, 
And  his  hearty  innocent  joy. 

For  as  yet  he  does  not  know 

All  the  wrong  his  mother  did. 

Would  that  this   might  pass  un- 
known ! 
For  his  young  years  God  forbid 

I  should  darken  by  my  own. 

Yet  this  must  come  .  .  .  but  I  mean 
He  shall  be,  as  time  moves  on, 

All  his  mother  might  have  been, 
Comfort,  counsel— both  in  one. 


Doubtless,  first,  in  that  which  moved 
me     » 
Man-'s   strong  natural   wrath  had 
part. 
Wronged    by    one    I    deemed    had 
loved  me, 
For  I  loved  her  from  my  heart ! 

But  that's  past !     If  I  was  sore 
To    the    heart,    and    blind    with 
shame, 

I  see  calmly  now.     Nay,  more, — 
For  I  pity  where  I  blame. 

For,  if  he  betray  or  grieve  her. 
What  is  her's  to  turn  to  still  ? 

And   at  last,   when   he  shall  leave 
her. 
As  at  last  he  surely  will, 

Where  shall  she  find  refuge  ?  what 
That     worst      widowhood       can 
soothe  ? 

For  the  Past  consoles  her  not, 
Nor  the  memories  of  her  youth, 

Neither  that  which  in  the  dust 
hath 
bore  ; 

But  with  her  own  shame  she  must 
Dwell  forsaken  evermore. 

Nothing  left  but  years  of  anguish, 
And  remorse  but  not  return  : 

Of  her  own  self-hate  to  languish  : 
For  her  long-lost  peace  to  yearn  ; 

Or,  yet  worse  beyond  all  measure, 
Starting  from  wild  reveries. 

Drain  the  poison  misnamed  Pleas- 
ure, 
And  laugh  drunken  on  the  lees. 

O  false  heart!  O  woman,  woman. 
Woman  !  would  thy  treachery 

Had  been  less  !  For*^surely  no  maji 
Better  loved  than  I  loved  thee. 

We  must  never  meet  again. 

Even  shouldst   thou    repent    the 
past. 
Both  must  suffer  :  both  feel  pain  : 

Ere  God  pardon  both  at  lasU 


430 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


Farewell,  thou  false  face!  Life 
speeds  me  * 

On  its  duties.     I  must  fight  : 
J  must  toil.     The  People  needs  me  ; 

And  I  speak  for  them  to-night. 

III. 
THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 

Thanks,    Dear !      Put    the    lamp 
down  ...  so. 
For  my  eyes  are  weak  and  dim. 
How  the  shadows  come  and  go  ! 
Speak  truth, — have  they  sent  for 
him? 

Yes,  thank  Heaven  !  And  he  will 
come, 

Come  and  watch  my  dying  hour, — 
Though  I  left  and  shamed  his  home. 

— I  am  withered  like  this  flower 

Which  he  gave  me  long  ago. 

'Twas  upon  my  bridal  eve, 
When  I  SAvore  to  love  him  so 

As  a  wife  should — smile  or  grieve 

With  him,  for  him — and  not  shrink. 


And  now  ? 


O  the  loni 


pain 


See  this  sunken  cheek  \     You  think 
He  would  know  my  face  again  ? 

All  its  wretched  beauty  gone ! 

Only  the  deep  care  survives. 
Ah,  could  years  of  grief  atone 

For  those    fatal  hours !    ...    It 
drives 

Past  the  pane,  the  bitter  blast ! 

In  this  garret  one  might  freeze. 
Hark  there  !  wheels  below !     At  last 

He  is  come  then  ?    No  .  .  .  the 
trees 

And  the  night-wind — nothing  more  ! 

Set  the  chair  for  him  to  sit, 
When  he  comes.      And  close    the 
door, 

For  the  gust  blows  cold  through  it. 


When  I  think,  I  can  remember 
I  was  born  in  castle-halls, — 

How  yon  dull  and  dying  ember 
Glares    against    the    whitewasht 
walls ! 

If  he  come  not  (but  you  said 

That  the  messenger  was  sent 
Long  since  ?)     Tell  him  when  I'm 
dead 
How  my  life's    last    hours   were 
spent 

In  repenting  that  life's  sin. 

And  .  .  .  the  room  grows  strangely 
dark  1 
See,  the  rain  is  oozing  in. 

Set  the  lamp  down  nearer.    Hark, 

Footsteps,  footsteps  on  the  stairs  ! 

His  .  .  .  no,   no !   'twas  not    the 
wind. 
God,  I  know,  has  heard  my  prayers. 

We  shall  meet.     I  am  resigned. 

Prop  me  up  upon  the  pillows. 

Will  he  come  to  my  bedside  ? 
Once    'twas    his    .  .  .   Among   the 
willows 

How  the  water  seems  to  glide ! 

Past  the  woods,  the  farms,  the  tow- 
ers, 
It  seems  gliding,  gliding  through. 
^^Dearest,  see,    these    young  Jiine- 
floiuers, 
I  have  pluckt  them  all  for  you, 

"  Here,  where  passed  my  boyhood 
mil  sing 
On  the  bride  which  I  might  2oed." 
Ah,  it  goes  now !    I  am  losing 
All  things.      What  was  that  he 
said? 


Say,  where  am  I  ?  . 
room  ? 


This  strange 


THE  EAJSL, 


Gertrude  I 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


431 


I  knew  it 
Is   this    the 


GERTRUDE. 

Ah,  his  voice ! 
But    this    place  ? 
tomb, 

With    the    cold     dews    creeping 
through  it  ? 

THE  EARL. 

Gertrude !  Gertrude  ! 

GERTRUDE. 

Will  you  stand 
Near  me  ?      Sit  down.      Do  not 
stir. 
Tell  me,  may  I  take  your  hand  ? 
Tell  me,  will  you  look  on  her 

AYho  so  wronged  you  ?    I  have  wept 

0  such  tears  for  that  sin's  sake ! 
And  that  thought  has  never  slept, — 

But  it  lies  here,  like  a  snake, 

In  my  bosom, — gnawing,  gnaAving 
All  my  life  up  !     I  had  meant, 

Could  I  live  yet  .  .  .  Death  is  draw- 
ing 
Near  me — 

THE   EARL. 

God,  thy  punishment ! 
Dare  I  judge  her  ?— 

GERTRUDE. 

O,  believe  me, 
'Twas  a  dream,  a  hideous  dream. 
And  I  wake  now.     Do  not  leave  me. 

1  am  dying.     All  things  seem 

Failing  from  me — even  my  breath! 

But  my  sentence  is  from  old. 
Sin  came  first  upon  me.     Death 

Follows  sin,  soon,  soon  !     Behold, 

Dying  thus !     Ah,  why  didst  leave 
Lonely  Love's  lost  bridal  bowers 

Where  I  found  the  snake,  like  Eve, 
Unsuspected  'mid  the  flowers  ? 

Had  I  been  some  poor  man's  bride, 
I  had  shared  with  love  his  lot  : 


Labored  truly  by  his  side, 
And  made  glad  his  lowly  cot. 

I  had  been  content  to  mate 

Love  with  labor's  sunburnt  brows. 

But  to  be  a  thing  of  state, — 
Homeless  in  a  husband's  house! 

In  the  gorgeous  game — the  strife 
For  the  dazzling  prize — that  moved 
you— 
Love  seemed  crowded  out  of  life — 

THE   EARL. 

Ah  fool !  and  I  loved  you,  loved 
you! 

GERTRUDE. 

Yes.     I  see  it  all  at  last — 

All  in  ruins.     I  can  dare 
To  gaze  down  o'er  my  lost  past 

From  these  heights  of  my  despair. 

O,   when    all    seemed    grown  most 
drear — 

I  was  weak — I  cannot  tell — 
But  the  serpent  in  my  ear 

Whispered,  whispered — and  I  fell. 

Lood  around  now.     Does  it  cheer 
you, 
This  strange  place  ?   the  wasted 
frame 
Of  the  dying  woman  near  you. 
Weighed  into  her  grave  by  shame? 

Can  you  trace  in  this  wan  form 
Aught     resembling    that     young 
girl's 
Whom  you  loved  once  ?    See,  this 
arm — 
Shrunken,    shrunken!      And  my 
curls, 

They  have  cut  them  all  away. 

And  my  brows  are  worn  with  woe. 
Would  you,  looking  at  me,  say, 

She  was  lovely  long  ago  ? 

Husband,  answer !  in  all  these 
Are  you  not  avenged  ?    If  I 


432 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


Could  rise  now,  upon  my  knees, 
At  your  feet,  before  I  die, 

1  would  fall  down  in  my  sorrow 
And   my  shame,    and   say   "  for- 
give," 

That  which  will  be  dust  to-morrow, 
This  weak  clay  ! 

THE   EARL. 

Poor  sufferer,  live. 
God  forgives.     Shall  I  not  so  ? 

GERTEUDE. 

Nay,  a  better  life,  in  truth, 
1  do  hope  for.     Not  below. 
Pg-rtner  of  my  perisht  youth, 

Husband,  wronged  one  !    Let  your 
blessing 
Be  with  me,  before,  to-night, 
From  the  life  that's  past  redressing 
This  strayed  soul  must  take  its 
flight ! 

Tears,    warm    tears  !    I  feel    them 
creep 
Down  my  cheek.     Tears — not  my 
own. 
It  is  long  since  I  could  weep. 
Past  all  tears  my  grief  hath  grown. 

Over  this  dry  withered  cheek, 
Drop  by  drop,  I  feel  them  fall. 

But  my  voice  is  growing  weak  : 
And  I  have  not  spoken  all. 

I  had  much  to  say.  My  son, 
My  lost  child  that  never  knew  me  ! 

Is  he  like  me  ?  One  by  one, 
All  his  little  ways  come  to  me. 

Is  he  grown  ?    I  fancy  him  ! 

How    that    childish    face     comes 
back 
O'er  my  memory  sweet  and  dim  ! 

And  his  long  hair  ?    Is  it  black  ? 

Or  as  mine  was  once  ?    His  mother 

Did  he  ever  ask  to  see  ? 
Has  he  grown  to  love  another — 

Some  strange  woman  not  like  me  ? 


Would  he  shudder  to  behold 
This  pale  face  and  faded  form 

If  he  knew,  in  days  of  old. 
How  he  slumbered  on  my  arm  > 

How    I    nurst    him  ?    loved    him  ? 
missed  him 

All  this  long  heartbroken  time  ? 
It  is  years  since  last  I  kissed  him. 

Does  he  hate  me  for  my  crime  ? 

I  had  meant  to  send  some  token — 
If,  indeed,  I  dared  to  send  it. 

This     old     chain — the     links     are 
broken — 
Like  my  life — I  could  not  mend  it. 

Husband,  husband  !  I  am  dying. 
Dying  !    Let  me  feel  your  kiss 

On  my  brow  where  I  am  lying. 
You  are  great  enough  for  this  ! 

And  you'll  lay  me,  when  I'm  gone, 
— Not    in    those    old    sculptiu-ed 
walls  ! 

Let  no  name  be  carved — no  stone — 
No  ancestral  funerals  ! 

In  some  little  grave  of  grass 
Anyv/here,  you'll  let  me  lie  : 

Where  the  night-winds  only  pass, 
Or  the  clouds  go  floating  by  ; 

Where  my  shame  may  be  forgot ; 

And  the  story  of  my  life 
And  my  sin  remem^  ered  not. 

So  forget  the  faithless  wife  ; 

Or  if,  haply,  when  I'm  dead, 
On  some  worthier  happier  breast 

Than  mine  was,  you  lean  your  head,  | 
Should  one  thought  of  me  molest 

Those  calm  hours,  recall  me  only 
As  you  see  me, — worn  with  tears  ;  '\ 

Dying  desolate  here  ;  left  lonely 
By  the  overthrow  of  years. 

May  I  lay  my  arm,  then,  there  ? 

Does  it  not  seem  strange  to  you, 
This  old  hand  among  your  hair  ? 

And  these  wasted  fingers  too  ? 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY, 


433 


How  the  lamp  wanes  !     All  grows 

dark — 

Dark  and  strange.    Yet  now  there 

shined  [hark  ! 

SomeMiing  past   me  .  .  .  Husband, 

There  are  voices  on  the  wind. 

Are  they  come  ?  and  do  they  ask  me 

For  the  songs  we  used  to  sing  ? 
Strange   that  memory  thus  should 
task  me  ! 
Listen — 

Birds  are  on  the  wing  : 

And  tJiy  Birthday  Morn  is  rising. 

May  it  ever  rise  as  bright ! 
Wake  not  yet  !     The  day's  devising 

Fair  new  things  for  thy  delight. 

Wake    not   yet!     Last    night    this 
Jloioer 

Near  thy  porch  began  to  pout 
From  its  warm  sheath:  in  an  hour 

All  the  young  leaves  will  be  out. 

Wake  not  yet!     So  dear  thou  art, 
love, 
That  I  grudge  these  buds  the  bliss 
Each  will  bring  to  thy  young  heart, 
love, 
I  would  claim  all  for  my  kiss. 

Wake  not  yet ! 

— There  now,  it  fails  me  ! 

Is  my  lord  there  ?    I  am  ill. 
And  I  cannot  tell  what  ails  me. 

Husband  !    Is  he  near  me  still  ? 

O,  this  anguish  seems  to  crush 
All  my  life  up,— body  and  mind  ! 

THE    EARL. 

Gertrude  !    Gertrude  !     Gertrude  ! 

GERTRUDE. 

Hush  ! 
There  are  voices  in  the  wind. 

THE    EARL. 

Still  she  wanders  !    Ah,  the  pluck- 
ing 
At  the  sheet ! 

GERTRUDE. 

Hist !  do  not  take  it 
28 


From  my  bosom.     See,  'tis  sucking  ! 
If  it  sleep  we  must  not  wake  it. 

Such  a  little  rosy  mouth  ! 

— Not  to-night,  O  not  to-night  ! 
Did  he  tell  me  in  the  South  [bright  ? 

That   those   stars    were   twice  as 

Off !  away  !  unliand  me — go  ! 

I  forgive  thee  my  lost  heaven, 
And  the  wrong  which  thou  didst  do. 

Would  my  sin,  too,  were  forgiven ! 

Gone  at  last  !  .  .  .  Ah,  fancy  feigns 
These  wild  visions !    I  grow  weak. 

Fast,    fast    dying!     Life's    warmth 
wanes 
From  me.     Is  the  fire  out  ? 

THE  EARL. 

Speak, 

Gertrude,    speak!      My    wife,    my 
wife ! 

Nay  slie  is  not  dead. — not  dead ! 
See,  the  lips  move.     There  is  life. 

She  is  choking.    Lift  her  head. 

GERTRUDE. 

Death  !  .  .  .  My  eyes  grow  dim,  and 
dimmer. 

I  can  scarcely  see  thy  face. 
But  the  twilight  seems  to  glimmer, 

Lighted  from  some  distant  place. 

Husband ! 

THE   EARL. 

Gertrude  ! 

GERTRUDE. 

Art  thou  near  me  ? 

On    thy  breast — once    more — thy 

breast !  [me, 

I  have   sinned — and — nay,  yet  hear 

And  repented — and — 

THE   EARL. 

The  rest 
God  hath  heard,  where  now  thou  art, 
Thou  poor  soul, — in  Heaven. 

The  door- 
Close  it  softly,  and  depart. 
Leave  us ! 

She  is  mine  once  more. 


434 


MINOR  POEMS. 


MIIOR  POEMS. 


THE  PARTING  OF  LAUNCELOT 
AND  GUENEYERE. 

A     FRAGMENT. 

Now,  as  the  time  wore  by  to  Our 

Lady's  Day, 
Spring  lingered  in  the  chambers  of 

the  South. 
The  nightingales  were  far  in  fairy 

lands 
Beyond  the  sunset:  but  the  wet  blue 

woods 
Were  half  aware  of  violets  in  the 

wake 
Of  morning  rains.    The  swallow  still 

delayed 
To    build    and  be    about  in  noisy 

roofs, 
And    March    was  moaning    in    the 

windy  elm. 

But  Arthur's  royal  purpose  held  to 

keep 
A  joust  of  arms  to  solemnize  the 

time 
In  stately  Caraelot.   So  the  King  sent 

forth 
His  heralds,  and  let  cry  through  all 

the  land 
That  he  himself  would  take  the  lists, 

and  tilt  . 
Against  all  comer^. 

Hither  came  the  chiefs 
Of  Christendom.  The  King  of  Norlh- 

galies  ; 
Anguishe,  the  King  of  Ireland  ;  the 

Haut  Prince, 
Sir  Galahault  ;    the    King    o'    the 

Hundred  Knights  ; 
The  Kings  of  Scotland  and  of  Brit- 
tany ; 
And  many  more  renowne'd  knights 

whereof 


The  names  are  glorious.      Also  all 

the  earls, 
And  all  the  dukes,  and  all  the  mighty 

men 
And   famous  heroes  of  the    Table 

Round, 
From  far  Northumberland  to  where 

the  wave 
Rides  rough  on  Devon  from  the  outer 

main. 
So  that  there  was  not  seen  for  seven 

years. 
Since    when,    at    Whitsuntide,    Sir 

Galahad 
Departed  out  of  Carlyel  from  the 

court, 
So    fair    a    fellowship    of    goodly 

knights. 

Then  would  King  Arthur  that  the 

Queen  should  ride 
With  him  from  Carlyel  to  Camelot 
To  see  the  jousts.     But  she,  because 

that  yet 
The  siclcness  was  upon  her,  answered 

nay. 
Then  said  King  Arthur,   "  This  re- 

penteth  me. 
For  never  hath  been  seen  for  seven 

years,  [tide. 

No,  not  since  Galahad  at  Whitsun- 
Departed  from  us  out  of  Carl-el, 
So    fair    a    fellowship     of    goodly 

knights." 
But  tl  ^  Queen  would  not,  and  the 

king  in  wrath, 
Brake  up  the  court,  and  rode  to  As- 

tolat 
On  this  side  Camelot. 

Now  men  said  the  Queen 
Tarried  behind  because  of  Launce- 

lot. 
For  Launcelot  stayed  to  heal  him  of 

his  wound. 


MTISrOR  POEMS. 


435 


And   there   had  been   estrangement 

And,  where  the  sweetness  seemed,  I 

'twixt  these  two 

see  the  sin. 

I'  the  hiter  time,  because  of  bitter 

For,  waking  lone,  long  hours  before 

words. 

the  dawn, 

So  when  the  king  with  all  his  fellow- 

Beyond the  borders  of  the  dark  I 

ship 

seem 

Was  ridden  out  of  Carlyel,  the  Queen 

To  see  the  twilight  of  another  world, 

Ai'ose,  and  called  to  her  Sir  Launce- 

That  grows  and  grows  and  glimmers 

lot. 

on  my  gaze. 

And  oft,  when  late,  before  the  lan- 

Then to  Sir  Launcelot  spoke  Queen 

guorous  moon 

Guenevere. 

Through    yonder    windows    to    the 

West  goes  down 

*'  Not  for  the  memory  of  that  love 

Among  the  pines,  deep  peace  upon 

whereof 

me  falls, 

No  more  than  memory  lives,   but, 

Deep  peace  like   death,   so    that  I 

Sir,  for  that 

think  I  know 

Which  even  when  love  is  ended  yet 

The  blesse'd  Mary  and  the  righteous 

endures 

saints 

Making  immortal  life  with  deathless 

Stand  at  the  throne  and    intercede 

deeds, 

for  me. 

Honor  —  true    knighthood's   golden 

Wlierefore  these  things  are  thus  I 

spurs,  the  crown 

cannot  tell. 

And  priceless    diadem    of    peerless 

But  now  I  pray  you  of  your  fealty, 

Queens,— 

And  by  all  knightly  faith  which  may 

I  make  appeal  to  you,  that  hear  per- 

be left. 

chance 

Arise  and  get  you  hence,  and  join 

The  last  appeal  which  I  shall  ever 

the  King. 

make. 

For  wherefore  hold  you  thus  behind 

So  weigh  my  words  not  lightly  !  for 

the  court. 

I  feel 

Seeing  my  liege  the  King  is  moved 

The  fluttering  fires  of  life  grow  faint 

in  wrath  ? 

and  col  I 

For  wete  you  well  what  say  your 

About  my  heart.      And  oft,  indeed. 

foes  and  mine. 

to  me 

"See  how  Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen 

Lying  whole  hours   awake   in    the 

Guenevere 

dead  nights 

Do  hold  them  ever  thus  behind  the 

The  end  seems  near,  as  though  the 

King 

darkness  knew 

That  they  may  take  their  pleasure ! 

The  angel  waiting  there  to  call  ray 

Knowing  not 

soul 

How  that  for  me  all  these  delights 

Perchance  before  the  house  awakes  ; 

are  come 

and  oft 

To  be  as  withered  violets." 

When  faint,  and  all  at  once,  from 

far  away. 

Half  in  tears 

The  mournful  midnight  bells  begin 

She  ceased  abrupt.     Given  up  to  the 

to  sound 

proud  grief. 

Across  the  river,  all  the  days  that 

Vexed  to  be  vext.     With  love  and 

were 

anger  moved. 

(Brief,  evil  days!)  retm*n  upon  my 

Love  toucht  with  scorn,  and  anger 

heart, 

pierced  with  love. 

43^ 


MINOR  POEMS, 


About  her,  all  unheeded,  her  long 

hail- 
Loosed  its  warm,  yellow,  waving 
loveliness, 

And  o'er  her  bare  and  shining  shoul- 
der cold 

Fell  floating  free.  Upon  one  full 
white  arm. 

To  which  the  amorous  purple  cover- 
let 

Clung  dimpling  close,  her  drooping 
state  was  propt. 

There,  half  in  shadow  of  her  soft 
gold  curls. 

She  leaned,  and  like  a  rose  enricht 
with  dew. 

Whose  heart  is  heavy  with  the  cling- 
ing bee, 

Bowed  down  toward  him  all  her 
glowing  face, 

While  the  light  of  her  large  angry 
eyes 

Uprose,  and  rose,  a  slow  imperious 
sorrow. 

And  o'er  the  shine  of  still,  unquiver- 
ing  tears 

Swam  on  to  him. 

But  he,  with  brows  averse 
And  orgolous  looks,  three  times  to 

speech  addressed. 
Three  times  in  vain.     The  silence  of 

the  place 
Fell  like  a  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 

hushed 
His  foolish  anger  with  authority. 
He    would    not    see    the    wretched 

Queen  :  he  saw 
Only  the  hunter    on  the    arrassed 

wall 
Prepare   to  wind   amort  his    bugle 

horn, 
And  the  long  daylight  dying  down 

the  floors  ; 
For    half-way  through  the    golden 

gates  of  eve 
The  sun  was  rolled       The  dropping 

tapestry  glowed 
With  awful  hiies.      Far  off  among 

his  reeds  [light, 

The  river,  smitten  with  a  waning 


Shone;  and,  behind  black  lengths  of 

pine  revealed. 
The  red  West  smouldered,  and  the 

day  declined. 
Then  year  by  year,  as  wave  on  wave 

a  sea, 
The  tided  Past  came  softly  o'er  his 

heart. 
And  all  the  days  which  had  been. 

So  he  stood 
Long  in  his  mind  divided:  with  him- 
self 
At  strife:  and,  like  a  steed  that  hotly 

chafes 
His  silver  bit,  which  yet  some  silken 

rein 
Swayed    by    a    skilled    accustomed 

hand  restrains. 
His  heart  against  the  knowledge  of 

its  lov-e 
Made  vain  revolt,  and  fretful  rose  and 

sunk. 
But  at  the  last,  quelling  a  wayward 

grief, 
That  swelled  against  all  utterance, 

and  sought 
To  force  its  salt  and  sorrowful  over- 
flow 
Upon  weak    language,    "Now    in- 
deed," he  cried, 
''I    see  the  face  of  the  old  time  is 

changed. 
And  all  things   altered  !    Will   the 

sun  still  burn  ? 
Still  burn  the   eternal   stars?    For 

love  was  deemed 
Not  less  secure  than  these.     Needs 

should  there  be 
Something  remarkable  to  prove  the  ' 

world 
I  am  no  more  that  Launcelot,  nor 

thou 
That    Guenevere,    of    whom,    longj 

since,  the  fame, 
Fruitful  of  noble  deeds,  with  such 

light 
Did  fill  this  nook  and  can  tie  of  the 

earth, 
That  all  great  lands  of  Christendoml 

beside 


MINOR  POEMS. 


437 


Showed  darkened  of  their  glory.   But 

I  see 
That  there  is  nothing  left  for  men  to 

swear  by. 
For  then  thy  will  did  never  urge  me 

hence, 
But  drew  me  through  all  dangers  to 

thy  feet. 
And  none  can  say,  least  thou,  I  have 

not  been  [fame. 

The  staff  and  burgonet  of  thy  fair 
Nor  mind  you,  Madam,  hov/  in  Sur- 

luse  once, 
"When  all  the  estates  were  met,  and 

noble  judges, 
Armed  clean  with  shields,  set  round 

to  keep  the  right, 
Before    you    sitting    throned    with 

Galahault 
In  great  array,  on  fair  green  quilts 

of  samite. 
Rich,   ancient,    fringed    with    gold, 

seven  summer  days. 
And  all  before  the  Earls  of  North- 
gal  ies, 
Such    service    then    with    this    old 

sword  was  wrought, 
To  crown  thy  beauty  in  the  courts  of 

Fame, 
That  in  that  time  fell  many  noble 

knights. 
And  all  men  marvelled  greatly?    So 

when  last 
Hid  horns 

we  supped 
With  Palamedes  and  with  Lamorak, 
All  those  great  dukes  and  kings,  and 

famous  queens, 
Beholding    us    v/ith    a    deep    joy, 

avouched 
Across   the   golden   cups    of  costly 

wine 
'  There   is    no   Queen  of    love    but 

Guenevere, 
And  no  true  knight  butLauncelot  of 

the  Lake  ! '" 

Thus  he,  transported  by  the  thought 

of  days 
And  deeds  that,  like  the  mournful 

mai'tial  sounds 


some  dead  king  goes  by. 
Made  music  in  the  chambers  of  his 

heart. 
Swept  by  the  mighty  memory  of  the 

past. 
Nor  spake  the  sorrowful  Queen,  nor 

from  deep  muse 
Unbent  the  grieving  beauty  of  her 

brows. 
But  held    her  heart's    proud    pain 

superbly  still. 

But  when  he  lifted  up  his  looks,  it 

seemed 
Something  of  sadness  in  the  ancient 

place. 
Like  dying  breath  from  lips  beloved 

of  yore, 
Or    unforgotten    touch    of    tender 

hands 
After   long  years,   upon    his    spirit 

fell. 
For  near  the  carven  casement  hung 

the  bird. 
With  hood  and  jess,  that  oft  had  led 

them  forth, 
These  lovers,  through  the  heart  of 

rippling  woods 
At  morning,  in  the  old  and  pleasant 

time. 
And  O'er  the  broidered  canopies  of 

state 
I31azed    Uther's    dragons,    curious, 

wrought  with  gems. 
Then  to  his  mind  that  dear  and  dis- 
tant dawn 
Came  back,   when  first,   a    boy    at 

Arthur's  court, 
He  paused  abasht  before  the  youth- 
ful Queen. 
And,  feeling  now  her  long  imploring 

gaze 
Holding  him  in  its  sorrow,  when  he 

marked 
How  changed  her  state,  and  all  un- 
like to  her, 
The  most  renowne'd  beauty  of  the 

time. 
And    pearl  of    chivalry,  for  whom 

himself 


438 


MINOR  POEMS. 


All  on  a  summer's  day  broke,  long 

of  yore 
A  hundred  lances   in  the  field,  he 

sprang 
And  caught  her  hand,  and,  falling  to 

one  knee. 
Arched  all   his  haughty  neck  to  a 

quick  kiss. 
And  there  was  silence.     Silently  the 

West 
Grew  red  and  redder,  and  the  day 

declined. 

As  o'er  the  hungering  heart  of  some 

deep  sea. 
That  swells  against  the  planets  and 

the  moon 
With  sad  continual  strife  and  vain 

unrest, 
In  silence  rise  and  roll  the  laboring 

clouds 
That    bind    the    thunder,   o'er   the 

heaving  heart 
Of    Guencvere  all  sorrows  fraught 

with  love, 
All  stormy  sorrows,  in  that  silence 

passed. 
And  like  a  star  in  that  tumultuous 

night 
Love  waxed  and  waned,  and  came 

and  wen  ,  changed  hue, 
And  was  and  was  not :  till  the  cloud 

came  down. 
And  all  her  soul  dissolved  in  show- 

ei-s  :  and  love 
Rose  through  the  broken  storm ;  and,  i 

with  a  cry  ' 

Of   passion    sheathed    in    sharpest 

pain,  she  stretched 
Wide  her  warm  arms  :  she  rose,  she 

reeled,  and  fell 
(All    her   great    heart    unqueened) 

upon  the  breast 
Of  Launcelot;   and,   lifting  up  her 

voice. 
She  wept  aloud,  "Unhappy  that  I 

am," 
She  wept,  "Unhappy  !    Would  that 

I  had  died 
Long  since,  long  ere  I  loved  thee, 

Launcelot  I 


Would  I  had  died  long  since  !  ere  I 

had  known 
This  pain,  which  hath  become  my 

punishment. 
To  have  thirsted  for  the  sea:  to  have 

received 
A  drop  no   bigger  than  a  drop  of 

dew  ! 
I  have  done  ill,"  she  wept,   "  I  am 

forlorn. 
Forlorn  !    I    falter    where  I    stood 

secure  : 
The  tower  I  built  is  fall'n,  is  fall'n  : 

the  staff 
I  leaned  upon  hath  broken  in  my 

hand. 
And    I,   disrobed,    dethroned,    dis- 
crowned, and  a.l  undone. 
Survive  my  kingdom,   widowed  of 

all  rule. 
And  men  shall  mock  me  for  a  foolish 

Queen. 
For  now  I  see  thy  love  for  me  is 

dead, 
Dead  that  brief  love  which  was  the 

light  of  life. 
And  all  is  dark:  and  I  have  lived  too 

long. 
For  how  henceforth,  unhappy,  shall 

I  bear 
To  dwell  among  these  halls  where 

we  have  been  ? 
How  keep  these  chambers  emptied 

of  thy  voice  ? 
The  walks  where  we  have  lingered 

long  ago,  [love, 

The  gardens  and  the  places  of  our 
Which  shall   recall  the    days    that 

come  no  more, 
And  all  the  joy  whi^h  has  been  ?  " 

Thus  o'erthrown, 
And    on  the    breast    of    Launcelot 

weeping  wild — 
Weeping    and    murmuring  —  hung  ,; 

Queen  Guenevere. 
But,  while  she  wept,  upon  her  brows 

and  lips  , 

Warm  kisses  fell,  warm  kisses  wet  ■ 

with  tears. 
For  all  his  mind  was  melted  with  re-J 

morse. 


MINOR  POEMS, 


439 


And  all  liis  scorn  was  killed,  and  all 

his  heart. 
Gave  way  in  that  caress,  and  all  the 

love 
Of  happier  years  rolled  down  upon 

his  soul 
Redoubled  ;  and  he  bowed  his  head, 

and  cried, 

**  Though  thou  be  variable   as  the 

waves,  ! 

More  sharp  than  winds  among  the  ! 

Hebrides  I 

That    shut    the    frozen    Spring    in  ' 

stormy  clouds,  . 

As  wayv>ard  as  a  child,  and  all  un 

■just, 
Yet  must  I  love  thee  in  despite  of 

pain, 
Thou  peerless  Queen  of  perfect  love ! 

Thou  star 
That  draw' St  all  tides  !    Thou  god- 
dess far  above 
My  heart's  weak  worship  !  so  adored 

thou  art. 
And  I  so  irretrievably  all  thine  ! 
But  now  I  will  arise,  as  thou  hast 

said. 
And  join  the  King  :  and  these  thine 

enemies 
Shall  know  thee  not  defenceless  any 

more. 
For,   either,  living,  I  yet  hold  my 

life 
To  arm  for  thine,  or,  dying,  by  my  j 

death  I 

Will  steep  love's  injured  honor  in  j 

such  blood  I 

Shall  wash  out  every  stain  !    And  so  ! 

farewell,  [far,  ! 

Beloved.     Forget  me  not  when  I  am  ' 
But  in  thy  prayers  and  in  thine  even-  j 

ing  thoughts  I 

Remember  me  :  as  I,  when  sundown  I 

crowns 
The    distant    hills,   and    Ave-Mary 

rings. 
Shall  pine  for  thee  on  ways  where 

thou  art  not." 

S©  these  two  lovers  in  one  long  em- 
brace, 


An  agony  of  reconcilement,  hung 
Blinded  in  tears  and  kisses,  lip  to 

lip. 
And  tranced  from  past  and  future, 

time  and  space. 

But  by  this  time,  the  beam  of  the 

slope  day. 
Edging  blue  mountain  glooms  with 

sullen  gold, 
A  dying  fire,  fell  mournfully  athvrart 
The  purple  chambers.     In  the  courts 

below 
The  shadow  of  the  keep  from  wall  to 

wall 
Shook  his  dark  skirt  :  great  chimes 

began  to  sound, 
And  swing,  and  rock  in  glimmering 

heights,  and  roll 
A  reeling  music  down  :  but  ere  it 

fell 
Faint  bells  in  misty  spires  adown  the 

vale 
Caught  it,  and  bore  it  floating  on  to 

night. 

So  from  that  long  love-trance  the 

envious  time 
Reclaimed  them.     Then  with  a  great 

pang  he  rose 
Like  one  that  plucked  his  heart  out 

from  his  breast, 
And,  bitterly  unwinding  her  white 

arms 
From  the  warm  circle  of  their  amor- 
ous fold, 
Left  living  on  her  lips  the  lingering 

heat 
Of  one  long  kiss  :   and,  gathering 

strongly  back 
His  poured-out  anguish  to  his  soul, 

he  went. 

And  the  sim  set. 

Long  while  she  sat  alone. 

Searching  the  silence  with  her  fixed 
eyes. 

While  far  and  farther  off  o'er  dis- 
tant floors 

The  intervals  of  brazen  echoes  fell. 

A  ciiangeful  light,  from  varying  pas- 
sions caught, 


440 


MINOR  POEMS. 


Flushed  all  her  stately  cheek  from 

white  to  red  • 
In  doubtful  alternation,  as  some  star 
Changes   his   fiery  beauty  :    for  her 

"  blood 
Set  headlong  to  all  wayward  moods 

of  sense, 
Stirred  with  swift  ebb  and  flow  :  till 

suddenly  all 
The    frozen    heights    of    grief    fell 

loosed,  fast,  fast, 
In  cataract  over  cataract,  on  her  soul. 
Then  at  the  last  she  rose,  a  reeling  \ 

shape  i 

That  like  a  shadow  swayed  against  I 

the  wall, 
Her  slight  hand  held  upon  her  bosom,  ' 

and  fell 
Before  the  Virgin  Mother    on  her 

knees. 
There,  in  a  halo  of  the  silver  shrine, 
That  touched  and  turned  to  starlight 

her  slow  tears, 
Below  the  feet  of  the  pale-pictured 

saint 
She  lay,  poured  out  in  j)rayer. 

Meanwhile,  without, 
A  sighing  rain  from  a  low  fringe  of 

cloud 
Whispered  among  the   melancholy 

hills. 
The  night's  dark  limits  widened  :  far 

above 
The  crystal  sky  lay  open  :  and  the 

star 
Of  eve,   his  rosy  circlet  trembling 

clear. 
Grew  large   and  bright,  and  in  the 

silver  moats, 
Between  the  accumulated  terraces. 
Tangled  a  trail  of  fire  :  and  all  was 

still. 

A  SUNSET  FANCY. 

Just  at  simset,  I  would  be 

(u  some  isle-garden,  where  the  sea 

i  look  into  shall  seem  more  blue 

Than  those  dear  and  deep  eyes  do. 

And,  if  anywhere  the  bi-eeze 

fchall  have  stirred  the  cypress-trees, 


Straight     the      yellow     ligiiL     falls 

through, 
Catching  me,  for  once,  at  ease  ; 
Just  so  much  as  may  impinge 
Some  tall  lily  with  a  tinge 
Of  orange  ;  while,  above  the  wall. 
Tumbles  downward  into  view 
(With  a  sort  of  small  surprise) 
One  star  more  among  them  all, 
For  me  to  watch  with  half-shut  eyeb. 

Or  else  upon  the  breezy  deck 

Of  some  felucca  ;  and  one  speck 

'Twixt  the  crimson  and  the  yellow. 

Which  may  be  a  little  fleck 

Of  cloud,  or  gull  with  outstretcht 

neck. 
To  Spezia  bound  from  Cape  Circello; 
With  a  sea-song  in  my  ears 
Of  the  bronzed  buccaneers  : 
While  the  night  is  waxing  mellow, 
And  the  helmsman  slackly  steers, — 
Leaning,  talking  to  his  fellow, 
AVho  has  oaths  for  all  he  hears, — 
Each  thief  swarthier  than  Othello. 
Or,  in  fault  of  better  things. 
Close  in  sound  of  one  who  sings 
To  casements,  in  a  southern  city  ; 
Tinkling  upon  tender  strings 
Some  melodious  old  love-ditty  ; 
While  a  laughing  lady  flings 
One  rose  to  him,  just  for  pity. 
But  I  have  not  any  want 
Sweeter  than  to  be  with  you. 
When  the  long  light  falleth  slant, 
And  heaven  turns  a  darker  blue  ; 
And  a  deeper  smile  grows  through 
The  glance  asleep  'neath  those  soft 

lashes. 
Which  the  heart  it  steals  into 
First  inspires  and  then  abashes. 
Just  to  hold  your  hand, — one  touch 
So  light  you  scarce  should  feel  it 

such  ! 
Just  to  watch  you  leaning  o'er 
Those  window-roses,  love,  ...  no 

more. 

ASSOCIATIONS. 
You  know  the  place  is  just  the  same! 
The  rooks  build  'here  :  the  sandy 
hill  is 


MINOR  POEMS. 


441 


A.blaze   with   broom,    as   when    she 

came 
Across  the  sea  with  her  new  name 
To  dwell  among  the  moated  Ulies. 

The  trifoly  is  on  the  walls  : 

The  daisies  in  the  bowling-alley  : 
The  ox  at  eve  lows  from  the  stalls  : 
At  eve  the  cuckoo,  floating,  calls, 
When   foxgloves  tremble  in  the 
valley. 

The  iris  blows  from  court  to  court  : 

The    bald  white    spider    flits,  or 

stays  in 

The  chinks  behind  the  dragonwort  : 

That  Triton  still,  at  his  old  sport. 

Blows  bubbles  in  his  broken  basin. 

The  terrace  where  she  used  to  walk 
Still  shines  at  noon  between  the 
roses  : 
The  garden   paths    are  blind  with 

chalk  : 
The  dragon-fly  from  stalk  to  stalk 
Swims  sparkling  blue  till  evening 
closes. 

Then,   just    above    that  long    dark 
copse. 
One  warm  red  star  comes  out,  and 
passes 
Westward,  and  mounts,  and  mounts, 

and  stops 
(Or  seems  to)  o'er  the  turret-tops. 
And  lights  those  lonely  casement- 
glasses. 

Sir  Ralph  still  wears  that  old  grim 
smile. 
The    staircase    creaks    as    up    I 
clamber 
To  those  still  rooms,  to  muse  awhile. 
I  see  the  little  meadow-stile 
As  I  lean  from   the  great  south- 
charaber. 

And  Lady  Ruth  is  just  as  white. 
(Ah,  still,  that  ^u'je  seems  strangely 

like  her  !)• 
The  lady  and  the  wicked  kuight— • 


All  just  the  same — she  swooned  for 
fright— 
And   he — his  arm   still  raised  to 
strike  her. 

Her  boudoir — no  one  enters  there  : 
The  very  flowers   which  last  she 
gathered 
Are    in    the    vase  ;    the    lute — the 

chair — 
And  all  things — just  as   then  they 
were  ! 
Except    the    jasmins, — those    are 
withered. 

But  when  along  the  corridors 

The  last  red  pause  of  day  is  stream- 
ing, 
I  seem  to  hear  her  up  the  floors  : 
I  seem  to  see  her  through  the  doors : 
And  then  I  know  that  I  am  dream- 
ing. 

MEETING  AGAIN. 

Yes  ;  I  remember  the  white  rose. 

And  since  then  the  young  ivy 

has  grown  ; 
From  your    window  we    could  r;ot 

reach  it,  and  now  it  is  over  the 

stone. 
We  did  not  part  as  we  meet.  Dear. 

Well,  Time  hath  his  own  stern 

cures  ! 
And  Alice's    eyes  are    deeper,  and 

her  hair  has  grown  like  yours. 

Is  our  greeting  all  so  strange  then  ? 

But  there's    something    here 

amiss, 
When  it  is  not  well  to  speak  kindly. 

And  the  olives  are  ripe  l)y  this. 
I  had  not  thought  you  so   altered. 

But    all    is      changed,     God 

knows  ! 
Good-night.     It  is    night    so    soon 

now.     Look  there  !  you  have 

dropt  your  rose. 

Nay,  I  have  one  that  is  withered  and 
dearer  to  me.     I  came 


442 


MINOR  POEMS. 


To  say  jjood-night,  little  Alice.  She 
does  not  remember  my  name. 

It  is  but  the  damp  that  is  making 
.  my  head  and  my  heart  ache 
so. 

I  never  was  strong  in  the  old  time, 
as  the  others  were,  you  know. 

And  you'll  sleep  well,  will  you   not, 

Darling  ?    The     old      words 

sound  so  dear  ! 
'Tis  the  last  time  I  shall  use  them : 

you  need  show  neither  anger 

nor  fear. 
It  is  well  that  you  look  so  cheerful. 

And  is  time  so  smooth  with 

you? 
How  foolish  I  am  !    Good    night, 

Dear.     And    bid  Alice  good 

night  too. 

ARISTOCRACY. 

To  thee  be  all    men  heroes  :  every 

race 
Noble  :    all    women    virgins  :    and 

each  place 
A  temple  :  know  thou  nothing  that 

is  base. 


THE  mermaide:n'. 

He  was  a  Prince  with  golden  hair 
(In  a  palace  beside  the  sea), 

And  I  but  a  poor  Mermaiden, — 
And  how  should  he  care  for  me  ? 

Last  summer  I  came,  in   the  long 
blue  nights. 
To  sit  in  the  cool  sea-caves  : 
Last  summer  he  came  to  count  the 
stars 
From  his  terrace  above  the  waves. 

There's  nothing  so  fair  in  the  sea 
down  there 
As  the  light  on  his  golden  tresses: 
There's  nothing    so   sweet    as    his 
voice  :  ah,  nothing 
So  warm  as   the   warmth   of  his 
kisses  ! 


I  could  not  help  but  love  him,  love 
hiin, 

Till  my  love  grew  pain  to  me. 
And  to-morrow" he  weds  the  Princess 

In  that  palace  beside  the  sea. 


AT  HER  CASEMENT. 

I  AM    knee-deep   in  grass,   in    this 

warm  June  night, 
In  the  shade  here,  shut  off  from  the 

great  moonlight. 
All  alone,  at  her  casement  there. 
She  sits  in  the  light,  and  she  combs 

her  hair. 
She  shakes  it  over  the  carven  seat, 
And  combs  it  down  to  her  stately 

feet. 
And  I  watch  her,  hid   in   the  blue 

June  night. 
Till  my  soul  grows  faint  with  the 

costly  sight. 
There's  no  flaw  on  that  fair  fine  brow 

of  hers. 
As  fair  and  as  proud  as  Lucifer's. 
She  looks  in  the  glass  as  she  turns 

her  head  : 
She  knows  that  the  rose  on  hei-  cheek 

is  red  : 
She  knows  how  her  dark  eyes  shine, 

— their  light 
Would  scarcely  be  dimmed  though  I 

died  to-night. 

I  would  that  there  in  her  chamber  I 

stood, 
Full-face  to  her  terrible  beauty  !  I 

would 
I  were  laid  on  her  queenly  breast,  at 

her  lips, 
With  her  warm  hair  wound  through 

my  finger-tips. 
Draining  her  soul  at  one  deep-drawn 

kiss 
And  I  would  be  humbly  content  for 

this 
To  die,  as  is  due,  before  the  morn. 
Killed    by    her    slowly     returning 

scorn. 


MINOR  POEMS, 


443 


A  FAREWELL. 

Be    happy,   child.      The   last  wild 

words  are  spoken. 
To-moiTow,  mine  no  more,  the  world 

will  claim  thee. 
I  blame  thee  not.     But  all  my  life  is 

broken. 
Of  that  brief  Past  I  have  no  single 

token. 
Never  in  years  to  come  my  lips  shall 

name  thee, 
Ts'ever,  child,  never  ! 

I  will  not  say  "  Forget  me  ; "    nor 

those  hours 
Which  were  so  sweet.    Some  scent 

dead  leaves  retain. 
Keep  all  the  flowers  I  gave  thee — all 

the  flowers 
Dead,  dead  !    Though  years  on  years 

of  life  were  ours,  [again  ; 

As  we  have  met  we  shall  not  meet 
Forever,  child,  forever  ! 


AN  EVENING  IN  TUSCANY. 

Look  !    the  sun  sets.     Now's  the 
rarest 
Hour  of  all  the  blessed  day. 
(Just    the    hour,    love,    you    look 
fairest  !) 
Even  the  snails  are  out  to  play. 

Cool  the  breeze  mounts,  like  this 

Chianti 

Which  I  drain  down  to  the  sun. 

—There  !    shut  up  that  old  green 

Dante, — 

Turn  the  page,  where  we  begun, 

At  the  last  news  of  Ulysses, — 
A  grand  image,  fit  to  close 

Just  such  grand  gold  eves  as  this  is, 
Full  of  splendor  and  repose  ! 

So    loop     up    those     long    bright 
tresses, — 
Only,  one  or  two  must  fall 
Down  your    warm    neck    Evening 
kisses 
Through  the  soft  curls  spite  of  all. 


Ah,  but  rest  in  your  still  place 
there  !  [pleasure 

Stir  not  —  turn  not  !  the  warm 
Coming,  going  in  your  face  there, 

And  the  rose  (no  richer  treasure) 

In  your  bosom,  like  my  love  there, 
Just  half  secret  and  half  seen  ; 

And  the  soft  lignt  from  above  there 
Streaming  o'er  you    where    you 
lean, 

With  your  fair  head  in  the  shadow 
Of  that  grass-hat's  glancing  brim. 

Like  a  daisy  in  a  meadow 
Which  its  own  deep  fringes  dim. 

O  you  laugh,  —  you  cry  "  What 
folly  ! " 

Yet  you'd  scarcely  have  me  wise, 
If  I  judge  right,  judging  wholly 

By  the  secret  in  your  eyes. 

But  look  down  now,  o'er  the  city 
Sleeping  soft  among  the  hills, — 

Our  dear  Florence  !  That  great  Pitti 
With  its  steady  shadow  fills 

Half  the  town  up  :  its  unwinking 
Cold    white     windows,    as    they 
glare  [ing 

Down  the  long  streets,  set  one  think- 
Of  the  old  dukes  who  lived  there  ; 

And  one  pictures  those  strange  men 
so  ! — 

Subtle  brains,  and  iron  thews  I 
There,  the  gardens  of  Lorenzo, — 

The  long  cypress  avenues 

Creep  up  slow  the  stately  hillside 
Where  the  merry  loungers  are. 

But  far  more  I  love  this  still  side, — 
The  blue  plain  you  see  so  far  ! 

Where  the  shore    of   bright  white 
villas 
Leaves    off    faint:     the    purple 
breadths 
Of  the  olives  and  the  willows  : 
And  the  gold-rimmed  mountain- 
widths  ; 


444 


MINOR  POEMS. 


All  transfused  in  slumbrous  glory 
To  one  burning  point — the  sun  ! 

But  up  here, — slow,  cold,  and  hoary 
Reach  the  olives,  one  by  one  : 

And  the  land  looks  fresh  :  the  yellow 
Arbute-berries,  here  and  there, 

Growing  slowly  ripe  and  mellow 
Through  a  flush  of  rosy  hair. 

For  the  Tramontana  last  week 
Was    about  :     'tis    scarce    three 
weeks 
Sifflce  the  snow  lay,  one  white  vast 
streak, 
Upon  those  old  purple  peaks. 

So  to-day  among  the  grasses 
One  may  pick  up  tens  and  twelves 

Of  young  olives,  as  one  passes. 
Blown  about,  and  by  themselves 

Blackening  sullen-ripe.      The  corn 
too 
Grows  each  day  from    green   to 
golden. 
The  large-eyed  wind-flowers  forlorn 
too 
Blow  among  it,  unbeholden  : 

Some  white,  some  crimson,  others 
Purple  blackening  to  the  heart. 
From    the    deep  wheat-sea,    which 
smothers 
Their  bright  globes  up,  how  they 
start  ! 

And  the  small  wild  pinks  from  ten- 
der 

Feather-grasses  peep  at  us  : 
Wliile  above  them  burns,  on  slender 

Stems,  the  red  gladiolus  : 

And  the  grapes  are  green  :  this  sea- 
son 
They'll  be  round  and  sound  and 
true, 
If  no  after-blight  should  seize  on 
Those  young  bunches  turning  blue. 

O  that  night  of  purple  weather  I 
(Just  before  the  moon  had  set) 

You  remember  how  together 
We  walked  home  ? — the  grass  was 
wet— 


The  long  gras?  in  the  Podere — 
With  the  banuy  dew  among  it : 

Aiul  that  nightingale — the  fairy 
Song  he  sung — O  how  he  sung  it  ! 

And  the  fig-trees  had  grown  heavy 
With  the  young  figs    white   and 
woolly. 

And  the  fire-flies,  bevy  on  bevy 
Of  soft  sparkles,  pouring  fully 

Their  warm  life  through  trance  on 
trances 
Of  thick  citron-shades  behind. 
Rose,  like  swarms  of  loving  fancies 
Through  some  rich  and   pensive 
mind. 

So  we  reached  the  loggia.     Leaning 
Faint,  we  sat  there  in  the  shade. 

Neither  spoke.      The  night's  deep 
meaning 
Filled  the  silence  up  unsaid. 

Hoarsely  through  the  cypress  ali.y 
A  civetta  out  of  tune 

Tried  his  voice  by  fits.     The  valley- 
Lay  all  dark  below  the  moon. 

Until  into  song  you  burst  out, — 
That  old  song  I  made  for  you 

When  we  found  our  rose, — the  first 
out 
Last  sweet  Springtime  in  the  dew. 

Well  !  ...  if  things  had  gone  less 
wildly — 
Had  I  settled  down  before 
There,  in  England — labored  mildly — 
And    been    patient — and  learned 
more 

Of  how  men  should  live  in  London — 
Been  less  happy — or  more  wise — 

Left  no  great  works  tried,  and  un- 
done— 
Never  looked  in  your  soft  eyes — 

I  .  .  .  but  what's  the  use  of  think- 
ing ? 

There  !  our  nightingale  begins — 
Now  a  rising  note — now  sinking 

Back  in  liule  broken  rings 


MINOR  POEMS. 


445 


Of  warm  song  that  spread  and  eddy — 
Now  lie  picks  up  heart — and  draws 

His  great  music,  slow  and  steady, 
To  a  silver-centred  pause  I 

SONG. 

The  purple  iris  hangs  his  head 

On  his  lean  stalk,  and  so  declines: 
The  spider  spills  his  silver  thread 

Between  the  bells  of  columbines  : 
An  altered  light  in  flickering  eves 
Draws    dews  through   these  dim 

eyes  of  ours  : 
Death  walks    in    yonder  waning 
bowers, 
And  burns  the  blistering  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a  day  ! 
Blooms  overblow : 
Suns  sink  away  : 
Sweet  thmgs  decay. 

The    drunken    beetle,    roused    ere 
night, 
Breaks  blundering  from  the  rot- 
ting rose, 
Flits  through  blue  spidery  a-conite, 

And  hums,  and  comes,  and  goes  : 
His  thick,  bewildered  song  receives 
A  drowsy  sense  of  grief  like  ours  : 
He  hums   and  hums  among  the 
bowers, 
And  bangs  about  the  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a-day  ! 
Hearts  overflow  : 
Joy  flits  away  : 
Sweet  tilings  decay. 

Her  yellow  stars  the  jasmin  drops 

In  mildewed  mosses  one  by  one  : 
The  hollyhocks  fall  off  their  tops  : 
The  lotus-blooms  ail  white  i'  the 
sun  : 
The    freckled    foxglove    faints  and 
grieves  : 
The  smooth-paced  slumbrous  slug 

devours 
The  gluey  globes  of  gorgeous  flow- 
ers. 
And  smears  the  glistering  leaves  ! 
Ah,  well-a  day  ! 
Life  leaves  us  so. 


Love  dare  not  stay. 
Sweet  things  decay. 

From  brazen  sunflowers,   orb    and 
fringe, 
The  burning    burnish  dulls  and 
dies  : 
Sad  Autumn  sets  a  sullen  tinge 

Upon  the  scornful  peonies  : 
The  dewy  frog  limps  out,  and  heaves 
A  speckled  lump  in  speckled  bow- 
ers : 
A  reeking  moistiu-e,  clings    and 
lowers 
The  lips  of  lapping  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a-day  ! 
Ere  the  cock  crow. 
Life's  charmed  array- 
Reels  all  away. 

SEASIDE  SONGS. 

I. 

Drop  down  below  the  orbed  sea, 

O  lingering  light  in  glowing  skies, 
And  bring  my  own  true-love  to  me — 
My  dear  true-love  across  the  sea — 
With  tender-lighted  eyes. 

For  now  the  gates  of  Night  are  flung 
Wide  open  her  dark  coasts  among  : 
And  the  happy  stars  crowd  up, 
and  up, 
Like  '"ubbles  that  brighten,  one 
by  one, 
To  the  dark  wet  brim  of    some 
glowing  cup 
Filled  full  to  the  parting  sun. 

And  moment  after  moment  grows 
In  grandeur  up  from  deep  to  deep 
Of  darkness,  till  the  night  hath 

clomb, 
From    star   to    star,    heaven's 
highest  dome. 
And,  like  a  new  thought  born  in 
sleep. 
The    slumbrous    glory    glows,    and 

glows  : 
While," far  below,  a  whisper  goes 
That  heaves  the  happy  sea  : 


446 


MINOR  POEMS. 


For    o'er  faint  tracts  of  fragrance 

wide, 
A  rapture  pouring  up  the  tide — 
A  freshness    through    the    heat — a 

sweet, 
Uncertain  sound,  like  fairy  feet — 
The  west-wind  blows  my  love  to 
e. 

Love-laden  from  the  lighted  west 
Thou  comest,  with  thy  soul  opprest 
For  joy  of  him  :  all  up  the  dim, 

Delicious  sea  blow  fearlessly, 
Warm  wind,  that  art  the  tenderest 
Or  all   that  breathe  from  south  or 
west, 

Blow  whispers  of  him  up  the  sea  : 
Upon  my  cheek,  and  on  my  breast, 
And  on  the  lips  which  he  hath  prest, 

Blow  all  his  kisses  back  to  me  ! 

Far  off,  the  dark  green  rocks  about, 
All  night  shines,   faint  and  fair, 
the  far  light  : 
Far  off,  the  lone,  late  fishers  shout 
From  boat  to  boat  i'  the  listening 
starlight  : 
Far  off,  and  fair,  the  sea  lies  bare, 
Leagues,  leagues  beyond  the  reach 
of  rowing  : 
Up  creek  and  horn  the  smooth  wave 
swells 
And  falls  asleep  ;  or,  inland  flow- 
ing, 
Twinkles  among  the  silver  shells, 
From    sluice    to  sluice  of    shallow 
wells  ; 
Or,   down    dark    pools  of  purple 
glowing, 
Sets    some    forlorn    star  trembling 
there 
In  his  own  dim,  dreamlike  bril- 
liancy. 
And  I  feel  the  dark  sails  grow- 
ing 
Nearer,  clearer,  up  the  sea  : 
And    I    catch    the  warm    west 
blowing 
All  ray  own  love's  sighs  to  me  : 
On  the  deck  I  hear  them  singing 
Songs  they  sing  in  my  own  land  ; 


Lights  are  swinging  :   bells  are  ring- 
ing : 
On  the  deck  I  see  him  stand  ! 

11. 

The  day  is  down  into  his  bower  : 
In  languid  lights  his  feet  he  steeps ' 

The    flusht    sky  darkens,   low  and 
lower, 
And  closes  on  the  glowing  deeps. 

In  creeping  curves  of  yellow  foam 
Up  shallow  sands  the  waters  slide: 

And   warmly  blow  what    v/hispers 
roam 
From  isle  to  isle  the  lulled  tide  : 

The  boats  are  drawn  ;  the  nets  drip 
bright : 
Dark  casements  gleam  :  old  songs 
are  sung  : 
And  out  upon  the  verge  of  night 
Green  lights  from  lonely  rocks  are 
hung. 

0  winds    of    eve    that    somewhere 

rove 
Where  darkest  sleeps  the  distant 

sea, 
Seek  out  where  haply  dreams  my 

love. 
And  whisper  all  her   dreams  to 

me  ! 

THE     SUMMER  -  TIME     THAT 
WAS. 

Tpie  swallow  is  not  come  yet  ; 

The  river-banks  are  brown  ; 
The  woodside  walks  are  dumb  yet, 

And  dreary  is  the  town. 

1  miss  a  face  from  the  window, 
A  footstep  from  the  grass  ; 

I  miss  the  boyhood  of  my  heart, 
And  tlie  smnmer-time  that  was. 

How  shall  I  read  the  books  I  read, 

Or  meet  the  men  I  met  ? 
I  thought  to  find  her  rosa-tree  dead, 

But  it  is  growing  yet. 


MINOR  POEMS. 


^i^OB 


Ei4i 


And    the   river    winds    among    the 
flags, 
And  the  leaf  lies  on  the  grass. 
But  I   walk  alone.     My  hopes  are 
gone, 
And  the  summer-time  that  was. 


ELAYNE  LE  BLANC. 

O  THAT  sweet  season  on  the  April- 
verge 

Of  womanhood  !  When  smiles  are 
toucht  with  tears, 

And  all  the  iinsolaced  summer 
seems  to  grieve 

With  some  blind  want :  when  Eden- 
exiles  feel 

Their  Paradisal  parentage,  and 
search 

Even  yet  some  fragrance  through 
the  thorny  years 

From  reachless  gardens  guarded  by 
the  sword. 

Then  those    that  brood  above  the 

fallen  sun, 
Or  lean   from   lonely  casements  to 

the  moon, 
Turn  round  and  miss  the  touching 

of  a  hand  : 
Then  sad  thoughts  seem  to  be  more 

sweet  than  gay  ones  : 
Then    old   songs  have  a  sound  as 

pitiful 
As  dead  friends'  voices,  sometimes 

heard  in  dreams  : 
And    all    a-tiptoe    for   some   great 

everit. 
The  Present  waits,  her  finger  at  her 

lips, 
The    while  the  pensive  Past  with 

meek  pale  palms, 
Crost  (where  a  child  should  lie)  on 

her  cold  breast, 
And    wistful     eyes    forlorn,  stands 

mutely  by, 
Keproaching    Life    with    some  un- 

uttered  loss  ; 
And    the    heart   pines,  a   prisoned 

Danae, 


Till  some  God  comes,   and  makes 
the  air  all  golden. 

In  such  a  mood  as  this,  at  such  an 

hour 
As  makes  sad  thoughts  fall  saddest 

on  the  soul, 
She,  in  her  topmost  bower  all  alone, 
High-up    among    the    battlemented 

roofs, 
Leaned  from  the  lattice,  where  the 

road  runs  by 
To  Camelot,  and  in  the  bulrush  beds 
The  marish  river  shrinks  his   stag- 
nant horn. 
All  round,  along  the  spectral  arras, 

gleamed 
(With  faces  pale  against  the  dreary 

light, 
Forms  of  great  Queens — the  women 

of  old  times. 
She  felt  their  frowns  upon  her,  and 

their  smiles. 
And  seemed  to  hear  their  garments 

rustling  near. 
Her   lute    lay  idle    her    love-books 

among  : 
And,    at    her    feet,    flung    by,    the 

broidered  scarf, 
And  velvet  mantle.     On  the   verge 

of  night 
She  saw  a  bird  float  by,  and  wished 

for  wings  : 
She  heard  the  hoarse  frogs  quarrel 

in  the  marsh  : 
And    now  and  then,   with  drowsy 

song  and  oar, 
Some  dim  barge  sliding  slow  from 

bridge  to  bridge, 
Down  the  white  river  past,  and  far 

behind 
Left  a  new  silence.     Then  she  fell 

to  muse 
Unto  what  end  she  came  into  this 

earth 
Whose  reachless   beauty  made  her 

heart  so  sad, 
As  one   that  loves,  but  hopes  not, 

inly  ails 
In  gazing   on  some   fair   unloving 

face. 


'443 


MINOR  POEMS. 


Anon,  there  dropt  down  a  great  gulf 

of  sky 
A  star  she  knew  ;  and  as  she  looked 

at  it, 
Down-drawn  through  her  intensity 

of  gaze, 
One  angry   ray  fell  tangled  in  her 

tears, 

[Jashei 

in  her  eyes. 
She  turned,  and  caught  her  lute,  and 

pensively 
Eippled  a  random  music  down  the 

strings. 
And  sang  .  .  . 

All  night  the  moonbeams   bathe 

flie  sward. 
There's  not  an  eye  to-night  in  Joy- 

ous-Gard 
That    is    not    dreaming    something 

sweet.     1  wake 
Because  it  is  more  sweet  to  dream 

awake  : 
Dreaming  I  see  thy  face  upon  the 

lake. 

I  am  come  up  from  far,  love,  to  be- 
hold thee. 

That  hast  waited  for  me  so  bravely 
and  well 

Thy  sweet  life  long  (for  the  Fairies 
liad  told  thee 

I  am  the  Knight  that  shall  loosen 
the  spell). 

And  to-morrow  morn  mine  arms 
shall  infold  thee  : 

And  to-morrow  night  ...  ah,  who 
can  tell  ? 

As  the  spirit  of  some  dark  lake 
Pines  at  nightfall,  wild-awake, 
For  the  approaching  consumma- 
tion 
Of  a  great  moon  he  divines 
Coming  to  her  coronation 
Of  the  dazzling  stars  and  signs. 
So  my  heart,  my  heart. 
Darkly  (ah,  and  tremblingly  !) 
Waits  in  mystic  expectation 
''vFrom  its  wild  som-ce  far  apart) 


Until  it  be  filled  with  thee,-— 
With  the  full-orbed  light  of  thee,— 
O  beloved  as  thou  art  ! 
With    the    soft    sad    smile    that 

flashes 
Underneath  thy  long  dark  lashes  ; 
And  thy  floating  raven  hair 
From  its  wreathe'd  pearls  let  slip  ; 
And  tny  breath,  like  balmy  air  ; 
And  thy  warm  wet  rosy  lip, 
With  my  first  kiss  lingering  there; 
Its  sweet  secret  unrevealed, — 
Sealed  by  me,  to  me  unsealed  ; 
And  .  .  .  but,  ah  !  she  lies  asleep 
In  yon  gray  stone  castle-keep. 
On  her  lids  the  bappy  tear  ; 
And  alone  I  linger  here  ; 
And  to-morrow  morn  the  fight  ; 
And    .    .    .    ah,   me  !    to-morrow 

night  ? 

Here  she  brake,  trembling,  off  ;  and 

on  the  lute, 
Yet  vibrating  through  its  melodious 

nerves, 
A  great  tear  plashed  and  tinkled. 

For  a  while 
She  sat  and  mused  ;   and,  heavily, 

drop  by  drop. 
Her  tears  fell  down  ;  then  through 

them  a  slow  smile 
Stole,  full  of  April-sweetness  ;  and 

she  sang — 
— It  was  a  sort  of  ballad  of  the  sea  : 
A  song  of  weather-beaten  marinei-s. 
Gray-headed  men  that  had  survived 

all  winds 
And   held   a  perilous  sport  among 

the  waves, 
Who  yet  sang  on  with  hearts  as  bold 

as  when 
They  cleared    their    native    harbor 

with  a  shout, 
And  lifted  golden   anchors  in  the 

sun. 

Merrily,  merrily  drove  our  barks, — 
Merrily  up  from  the  morning  beach! 
And    the    brine    broke    imder    her 

prows  in  sparks  ; 
For  a  spirit  sat  high  at  the  helm  of 

each. 


MINOR  POEMS. 


449 


We  sailed  all   day  ;   and,  when  day  | 

was  done,  ' 

Steered  after  the  wake  of  the  snnken 

sun, 
For  we  meant  to  follow  him  out  of 

reach 
Till    the    golden    dawn   was    again 

begun. 

With  lifted    oars,  with  shout  and 

song. 
Merry  mariners  all  were  we  ! 
Every  heart  beat  stout  and  strong. 
Through  all  the  world  you  would 

not  see, 
Though  you    should  journey  wide 

and  long, 
A  comelier  company. 
And    v.here,    the    echoing    creeks 

among. 
Merrily,  steadily, 

From  bay  to  bay  our  barks  did  fall, 
You  might  hear  us  singing,  one  and 

all,  I 

A  song  of  the  mighty  sea.  j 

But,  just  at  twilight,  down  the  rocks  j 
Dim  forms  trooped  fast,  and  clearer 

grew  : 
For  out  upon  the  sea-sand  came 
The  island-people,  whom  we  knew, 
And  called  us  : — girls  with  glowing 

locks  ; 
And   sunburnt  boys  that  tend  the 

herd 
Far  up  the  vale  ;  gray  elders  too 
With  silver  beards  : — their  cries  we 

heard  : 
They  called    us,   each    one  by  his 

name. 

*' Could  ye  not  wait  a  little  while," 
We  heard  them  sing,  "for  all  our 

sakes  ? 
A  little  while,  in  this  old  isle," 
They  sung,  "  among  the  silver  lakes? 
For  here,"  they  sung,  "from  horn 

to  horn 
Of  flowery  bays  the  land  is  fair  : 
The  hillside  glows  with  grapes  :  the 

corn 
Grows  golden  m  the  vale  down  there. 


Our  maids   are  sad  for  you,"  they 

sung  : 
"  Against  the  field  no  sickle  falls  : 
Upon  the  trees  our  harps  are  hung  : 
Our    doors    are  void  :    and   in  the 

stalls 
The  little  foxes  nest  ;  among 
The  herd-roved  hills  no    shepherd 

calls  : 
Your  brethren  mourn  for  you,"  they 

sung. 
"  Here  weep  your  wives :  here  passed 

your  lives 
Among  the  vines,  when  you  were 

young  : 
Here  dwell  your  sires  :  your  house- 
hold fires 
Grow  cold.  Return  !  Return  1"  they 

sung. 

Then    each    one  saw  his  kinsman 

stand 
Upon  the  shore,  and  wave  his  hand : 
And  each  grew  sad.     But  still  we 

sung 
Our  ocean-chorus  bold  and  clear  ; 
And  still  upon  our  oars  we  hung, 
And  held  our  course  with  steadfast 

cheer. 
"  For    we    are    bound    for    distant 

shores," 
We  cried,  and  faster  swept  our  oars: 
"  We  pine  to  see  the  faces  there 
Of  men  whose  deeds  we  heard  long 

since, 
Who  haunt  our  dreams  :  gray  he- 
roes :  kings 
Whose  fame  the  wandering  minstrel 

sings  : 
And  maidens,  too,   more  fair  than 

ours, 
With  deeper  eyes  and  softer  hair. 
Like  hers  that  left  her  island  bowers 
To  wed  the  sullen  Cornish  Prince 
Who  keeps  his  court  upon  the  hill 
By  the  gray  coasts  of  Tyntagill, 
And  each,  before  he  di^s,  must  gain 
Some  fairy-land  across  the  main." 

But  still  "  return,  beloved,  return  i" 
The  simple  island-people  sung  ; 


450 


MINOR  POEMS. 


And  still  each  mariner's  heart  did 

burn, 
As  each  his  kinsman  could  discern, 
Those  dim  green  rocks  among. 

**  O'er  you  the  rough  sea-blasts  will 

blow," 
They  sung,  *' while  here  the  skies 

are  fair  : 
Our  paths  are  through  the  fields  we 

know  : 
And  yours  you  know  not  where. " 

But  we  waved  our  hands  .  .  .  "fare- 
well !  farewell  ! " 
We  cried  ..."  our  white  sails  flap 

the  mast : 
Our  course  is  set :  our  oars  are  wet : 
One  day,"  we  cried,  "  is  nearly  past : 
One  day  at  sea  !  Farewell  !  fare- 
well ! 
No  more  with  you  we  now  may 
.  dwell  !" 

And  the  next  day  we  were  driving 

free 
(With  never  a  sail  in  sight) 
Over  the  face  of  the  mighty  sea, 
And  we  counted  the  stars  next  night 
Rise  over  us  by  two  and  three 
With  melancholy  light  : 
A  grave-eyed,  earnest  company, — 
And  all  round  the  salt  foam  white  ! 

With  this,  she  ceased,  and  sighed 
..."  though  I  were  far, 

I  know  yon  moated  iris  would  not 
shed 

His  purple  crown  :  yon  clover-field 
would  ripple 

As  merry  in  the  waving  wind  as 
now  : 

As  soft  the  Spring  down  this  bare 
hill  would  steal. 

And  in  the  vale  below  fling  all  her 
flowers  : 

Each  year  the  wet  primroses  star  the 
woods  : 

And  violets  muffle  the  sharp  rivu- 
lets : 

Round  this  lone  casement's  solitary 
panes 


The  wandering  ivy  move  and  mount 

each  year  : 
Each  year  the  red  wheat  gleam  near 

river-banks  : 

While,   ah,   with  each  my  memory 

from  the  hearts 
Of  men  would  fade,  and  from  their 

lips  my  name. 
O  which  were   best — the  wide,  the 

windy  sea, 
With  golden  gleams  of  undiscovered 

lands. 
Odors,  and  murmurs — or  the  placid 

Port, 
From  wanton  winds,  from  scornful 

waves  secure. 
Under  the  old,  green,  happy  hills  of 

home  ?  "  " 
She  sat  forlorn,  and  pondered.  Night 

was  near. 
And,  marshalling  o'er  the  hills  her 

dewy  camps. 
Came  down  the  outposts  of  the  sen- 
tinel stars. 
All  in  the  owlet  light  she  sat  forlorn. 

Now  hostel,  hall,  and  grange,  that 

eve  were  crammed  : 
The  town  being  choked  to  bursting 

of  the  gates  : 
For  there  the  King  yet  lay  with  all 

his  Earls, 
And  the  Round  Table,  numbering 

all  save  one. 

On  many  a  curving  terrace  which 

o'erhung 
The    long    gray    river,     swan- like, 

through  the  green 
Of  quaintest  yews,  moved,  pacing 

stately  by. 
The  lovely  ladies  of  King  Arthur's 

court. 
Sighing,   she  eyed  them  from  that 

lonely  keep. 

The  Dragon-banners  o'er  the  turrets 

drooped. 
The  heavy  twilight  hanging  in  their 

folds. 


MINOR  POEMS. 


45^ 


Aud  now  and  then,  from  posterns  in 

ihe  wall 
The  knights  stole,  lingering  for  some 

last  Good-night, 
Whispered  or  sighed  through  closing 

lattices  ; 
Or  paused  with  reverence  of  bending 

plumes, 
And  lips  on  jewelled  fingers  gayly 

prest. 
The  silver  cressets  shone  from  pane 

to  pane  : 
And   tapers  flitted  by  with  flitting 

forms  : 
Clanged  the  dark  streets  with  clash 

of  iron  heels  : 
Or  fell  a  sound  of  coits  in  clattering 

courts. 
And   drowsy  horse-boys  singing  in 

the  straw. 

These  noises  floated  upward.     And 

within. 
From  the  great  Hall,  forever  and 

anon, 
Brake  gusts  of  revel ;  snatches  of 

wild  song. 
And  laughter  ;  where  her  sire  among 

his  men 
Caroused  between  the  twilight  and 

the  dark. 
The  silence  round  about  her  where 

she  sat, 
Yext  in  itself,  grew  sadder  for  the 

sound. 
She  closed   her  eyes  :   before  them 

seemed  to  float 
A  dream  of  lighted  revels, — dance 

and  song 
In  Guenver's  palace  :  gorgeous  tour- 
naments ; 
And  rows  of  glittering  eyes  about 

the  Queen 
(Like  stars  in  galaxies  around  the 

moon). 
That  sparkled  recognition  down  be- 
low, 
Where  rode  the  Knights  amort  with 

lance  and  plume  ; 
And  each  his  lady's  sleeve  upon  his  ' 

heim :  ' 


Murmuring  .  .  .  "none  ride  for  me. 

Am  I  not  fair, 
Whom  men  call  the  White  Flower 

of  Astolat?" 

Far,  far  without,  the  wild  gray  mar- 
ish  spread, 

A  heron  startled  from  the  pools,  and 
flapped 

The    water    from    his  wings,    and 
skirred  away. 

The  last  long  limit  of  the  dying  light 

Dropped,  ail  on  fire,  behind  an  iron 
cloud  : 

And,  here  and  there,  through  some 
wild  cbasm  of  blue. 

Tumbled  a  star.     The  mist  upon  the 
fens 

Thickened.     A  billowy  opal  grew  i' 
the  crofts, 

Fed  on  the  land,  and  sucked    into 
itself 

Paling  and   park,   close  copse    and 
bushless  down. 

Changing  the  world  for  Fairies. 

Then  the  moon 

In  the  low  east,   unprisoned   from 
black  bars 

Of    stagnant    fog    (a    white    light, 
Avrought  to  the  full, 

Summed  in  a  perfect  orb)  rose  sud- 
denly up 

Upon  the  silence  with  a  great  sur- 
prise. 

And  took  the  inert  landscape  un- 
awares. 

White,  white,  the  snaky  river  :  dark 

the  banks : 
And  dark  the  folding  distance,  where 

her  eyes 
Were  wildly  turned,  as  though  the 

whole  world  lay 
In  that  far  blackness  over  Carlyel. 
There  she  espied  Sir  Launcelot,  as 

he  rode 
His    coal-black    courser  downward 

from  afar. 
For  all   his    armor  glittered   as  he 

went, 
And   showed   like    silver  :    and    his 

mighty  shield, 


452 


MINOR  POEMS. 


By  dint  of  knightly  combat  hackt  and 

worn, 
Looked  like  some  cracked  and  frozen 

moon  that  hangs 
By  night  o'er  Baltic  headlands  all 

"alone. 

TO  . 

As,  in  lone  fairy-lands,  up  some  rich 

shelf 
Of  golden  sand  the  wild  wave  moan- 

ingly 
Heaps  its  unvalued  sea-wealth,  weed 

and  gem. 
Then  creeps  back  slow  into  the  salt 

sad  sea  : 
So  from  my  life's  new  searched  deeps 

to  thee. 
Beloved,  I  cast  these  weed-flowers. 

Smile  on  them. 
More  than  they  mean  I  know  not  to 

express. 
So  I  shrink  back  into  my  old  sad 

self, 
Far  from  all  words  where  love  lies 

fathomless. 

QUEEX  GUENEVERE. 

Thence,    up    the    sea-green    floor, 

among  the  stems 
Of  mighty  columns  whose  unmeas- 
ured shades 
From  aisle  to  aisle,  unheeded  in  the 

sun. 
Moved  without  sound,  I,  following 

all  alone 
A  strange  desire  that  drew  me  like  a 

hand. 
Came  unawares  upon  the  Queen. 

She  sat 
In  a  great  silence,  which  her  beauty 

filled 
Full  to  the  heart  of  it,  on  a  black 

chair 
Mailed  all  about  with  sullen  gems, 

and  crusts 
Of  sultry  blazonry.     Her  face  was 

bowed, 
A  pause  of  slumbrous  beauty,  o'er 

the  light 


Of  some  delicious  thought  new-risen 

above 
The  deeps  of  passion.     Round  her 

stately  head 
A  single  circlet  of  the  red  gold  fine 
Burned  free,  from  which,  on  either 

side  streamed  down 
Twilights  of  her  soft  hair,  from  neck 

to  foot.  [is, 

Green  was  herkirtle  as  the  emerolde 
And  stiff  from  hem  to    hem  with 

seams  of  stones 
Beyond  all  value  ;  which,  from  left 

to  right 
Disparting,  half  revealed  the  snowy 

gleam 
Of  a  white  robe  of  spotless  samite 

pure. 
And  from  the  soft  repression  of  her 

zone, 
Which  like  a  light  hand  on  a  lute- 
string pressed 
Harmony    from    its    touch,    flowed 

warmly  back 

Duntec 

grace. 
Nor  yet  outfloAved    sweet  laws    of 

loveliness. 

Then  did  I  feel  as  one  who,  much 

perplext, 
Led  by  strange  legends  and  the  light 

of  stars 
Over  long  regions  of  the  midnight 

sand 
Beyond  the  red  tract  of  the  Pyra- 
mids, 
Is  suddenly  drawn  to  look  upon  the 

sky 
From  sense  of  unfamiliar  light,  and 

sees, 
Revealed    against   the    constellated 

cope 
The  great  cross  of  the  South. 

The  chamber  round 
Was  dropt  with  arras  gi'een  ;  and  I 

could  hear. 
In  courts  far  off,  a  minstrel  praising 

May, 
Who  sang  .  .  .   Si  douce,  si  douce 

eat  la  Margarete  ! 


MTN-OR  POEMS. 


453 


To  a  faint  lute.  TJpou  the  window- 
sill, 

Hard  by  a  latoun  bowl  that  blazed  i' 
the  sun 

Perched  a  strange  fowl,  a  Falcon 
Peregrine  ; 

With  all  his  feathers  puft  for  pride, 
and  all 

His  courage  glittering  outward  in  his 
eye  ; 

For  h-^  iiad  flown  from  far,  athv/art 
strange  lands, 

And  o'er  the  light  of  many  a  fitting 
sun, 

Lured  by  his  love  (such  sovereignty 
of  old 

Had  Beauty  in  all  coasts  of  Chris- 
tendom !) 

To  look  into  the  great  eyes  of  the 
Queen. 


THE  NEGLECTED  HEART. 

This  heart,  you  would  not  have, 
I  laid  up  in  a  grave 
Of  song  :  with  love  enwound  it ; 
And  set  sweet  fancies  blowing  round 

it. 
Then  I  to  others  gave  it  ; 
Because  you  would  not  have  it. 
"See  you  keep  it  well,"  Isaid  ; 
"This  heart's  sleeping — is  not  dead; 
But  will  wake  some  future  day  : 
See  you  keep  it  while  you  may." 

All  great  Sorrows  in  the  world, — 
Some  with  crowns  upon  their  heads. 
And  in  regal  purple  furled  ; 
Some  with  rosaries  and  beads  ; 
Some  with  iips  of  scorning,  curled 
At  false  Fortune  ;  some,  in  weeds 
Of  mourning  and  of  widowhood, 
Standing  tearful  and  apart, — 
Each  one  in  his  several  mood, 
Came  to  take  my  heart. 

Then  in  holy  ground  they  set  it ; 
With  melodious  weepings  wet  it 
And  revered  it  as  they  found  it, 
With  wild  fancies  blowing  round  it. 


And  this  heart  (you  would  not  have) 
Being  not  dead,  though  in  the  grave, 
Worked      miracles      and      marvels 

strange, 
And  healed  many  maladies  : 
Giving  sight  to  sealed-iip  eyes, 
And  legs  to  lame  men  sick  for  change. 

The    fame    of    *>    pew    great    and 

gT-eater. 
Then   s  lid  you,    "Ah,    what's   the 

matter  ? 
How  hath  this  heart  I  would  not 

take. 
This    weak    heart    a    child    might 

break — 
This  poor,  foolish  heart  of  his — 
Since  won  worship  such  as  this  ?  '' 

You  bethought  youthen  .  .  .   "Ah 

me, 
Wliat  if  this  heart,  I  did  not  choose 
To  retain,  hath  found  the  key 
Of  the  kingdom  ?  and  I  lose 
A  great  power  ?    Me  he  gave  it  ; 
Mine  the  right,  and  I  will  have  it." 

Ah,  too  late  !    For  crowds  exclaimed, 
"  Ours  it  is  :  and  hath  been  claimed. 
Moreover,  where  it  lies,  the  spot 
Is  holy  ground  :  so  enter  not. 
None  but  men  of  mournful  mind, — 
Men  to  darkened  days  resigned  ; 
Equal  scorn  of  Saint  and  Devil  ; 
Poor  and  outcast  ;  halt  and  blind  ; 
Exiles  from  Life's  golden  revel  ; 
Gnawing  at  the  bitter  rind 
Of  old  griefs  ;  or  else,  confined 
In  proud  cares,  to  serve  and  grind, — 
May  enter  :  whom  this  heart  shall 

cure. 
But  go  thou  by  :  thou  art  not  poor  : 
Nor  defrauded  of  thy  lot  : 
Bless  thyself  :  but  enter  not  !" 

APPEARANCES. 

Well,  you  have  learned  to  smile. ' 
And  no  one  looks  for  traces 
Of  tears  about  your  eyes. 
Your  face  is  like  most  faces. 
And  who  will  ask,  meanwhile, 
If  your  face  your  heart  belies  ? 


454 


MINOR  POEMS. 


Are  you  liappy  ?    You  look  so. 
Well,  I  wish  you  what  you  seem. 
Happy  persons  sleep  so  light  ! 
In  yoiu-  sleep  you  never  dream  ? 
But  who  would  care  to  Icnow 
What    dreams    you    dreamed    last 
night  ? 

HOW  THE  SONG  WAS  MADE. 

I  SAT  low  down,  at  midnight,  in  a 
vale 
Mysterious  with  the  silence  of  blue 
pines  : 
White-cloven  by  a  snaky  river-tail, 
Uncoiled  from  tangled  wefts  of  sil- 
ver twines. 

Out  of  a  crumbling  castle,  on  a  spike 
Of    splintered    rock,    a    mile    of 
changeless  shade 
Gorged  half  the  landscape.    Down  a 
dismal  dike 
Of  black  hills  the  sluiced  moon- 
beams streamed,  and  stayed. 

The  world  lay  like  a  poet  in  a  swoon, 
When  God  is  on  him,  filled  with 
Heaven,  all  through, — 
A  dim  face  full  of  dreams  turned  to 
the  moon. 
With  mild  lips  moist  in  melan- 
choly dew. 

I  plucked  bine  mugwort,  livid  man- 
drakes, balls 
Of  blossomed  nightshade,  heads  of 
hemlock,  long 
Vvhite  grasses,  grown  in  oozy  inter- 
vals 
Of  marsh,  to  make  ingredients  for 
a  song  : 

/\  song  of  mourning  to  embalm  the 
Past,— 
The    corpse-cold     Past, — that    it 
should  not  decay  ; 
But  in  dark  vaults  of  memory,  to  the 
last. 
Endure  unchanged  :   for  in  some 
future  day 


I  will  bring  my  new  love  to  look  at 
it 
(Laying  aside  her  gay  robes  for  a 
moment) 
That,  seeing  what  love  came  to,  she 
may  sit 
Silent  awhile,  and  muse,  but  make 
no  comment. 


RETROSPECTIONS. 

To-NiGHT    she    will  dance    at    the 
palace, 
With  the  diamonds  in  her  hair  : 
And    the    Prince    will    praise    her 
beauty — 
The  loveliest  lady  there  ! 

But  tones,  at  times,  in  the  music 

Will  bring  back  forgotten  things  : 
And  her  heart  will  fail  her  some- 
times. 
When  her  beauty  is  praised  at  the 
King's. 

There  sits  in  his  silent  chamber 
A  stern  and  sorrowful  man  : 

But  a  strange  sweet  dream  comes  to 
him, 
AVhile  the  lamp  is  burning  wan, 

Of  a  sunset  among  the  vineyards 
In  a  lone  and  lovely  land. 

And  a  maiden  standing  near  him, 
AVith    fresh    wild-flowers  in    her 
hand. 

THY  VOICE  ACROSS  MY  SPIRIT 
FALLS. 

TiTY  voice  across  my  spirit  falls 

Like  some  spent  sea-wind  through 
dim  halls 

Of  ocean-king's,  left  bare  and  wide 

(Green  floors  o'er  which  the  sea- 
weed crawls  !) 

Where  once,  long  since,  in  festal 
pride 

Some  Chief,  who  roved  and  ruled  the 
tide. 

Among  his  brethren  reigned  and 
died. 


MINOR  POEMS. 


455 


I  dare  not  meet  thine  eyes  ;  for  so, 
In  gazing  tliere,  I  seem  once  more 
To^lapse  a\\'ay  tlu'ough  days  of  yore 
To  homes  where  laugli  and  song  is 

o'er. 
Whose  inmates  each  went  long  ago — 

Like  some  lost  soul,  that  keeps  the 

semblance 
On  its  brow  of  ancient  grace 
Not  all  faded,  wandering  back 
To  silent  chambers,  in  the  track 
Of  the  twilight,  from  the  Place 
Of  retributive  Remembrance. 
Ah,  turn  aside  those  eyes  again  ! 
Their  light  has  less  of  joy  than  pain. 
We  are  not  now  what  we  were  then. 


THE  KUINED  PALACE. 

Broken  are  the  Palace  windows  : 

Rotting  is  the  Palace  floor. 
The  damp  wind  lifts  the  arras, 

And  swings  the  creaking  door  ; 
But  it  only  startles  the  white  owl 

From  his  perch  on  a  monarch's 
throne, 
And  the  rat  that  was  gnawing  the 
harp-strings 

A  Queen  once  played  upon. 

Dare  you  linger  here  at  midnight 

Alone,  when  the  wind  is  about, 
And  the  bat,  and  the  newt,  and  the 
viper. 

And  the  creeping  things  come  out? 
Beware  of  these  ghostly  chambers  ! 

Search  not   what  my  heart  hath 
been, 
Lest  you  find  a  phantom  sitting 

Where  once  there  sat  a  Queen. 


A  VISION  OF  VIRGINS. 
I  HAD  a  vision  of  the  night. 

It  seemed 
There  was  a  long  red  tract  of  barren 

land, 
Blockt  in   by  black  hills,  where   a 

half-moon  dreamed 


Of  morn,  and  whitened. 

Drifts  of  dry  brown  sand, 

This  way  and  that,  were  heapt  be- 
low :  and  flats 

Of  water  : — glaring  shallows,  where 
strange  bats 

Came  and  went,   and  moths  flick- 
ered. 

To  the  right 

A  dusty  road  that  crept  along  the 
waste 

Like  a  white  snake  :  and,  farther  up, 
I  traced 

The  shadow  of  a  great  house,  far  in 
sight : 

A    hundred    casements    all    ablaze 
with  light  : 

And  forms  that  flit  athwart  them  as 
in  haste  : 

And  a  slow  nuisic,  such  as  some- 
times kings 

Command   at  mighty  revels,    softly 
sent 

From  viol,  and  flute,  and  tabor,  and 
the  strings 

Of  many  a  sweet  and  shmibrous  in- 
strument 

That  wound  into  the  mute  heart  of 
the  night 

Out  of  that  distance. 

Then  I  could  perceive 

A  glory  pouring  through  an  open 
door, 

And  in  the  light  five  women.      I  be- 
lieve 

They  wore  white  vestments,  all  of 
them.     They  were 

Quite  calm  ;  and  each  still  face  un- 
earthly fair, 

Unearthly  quiet.      So  like  statues 
all, 

Waiting    they    stood    without  that 
lighted  hall  ; 

And  in  their  hands,  like  a  blue  star, 
they  held 

Each  one  a  silver  lamp. 

Then  I  beheld 

A  shadow  in  the  doorway.    And  One 
came 

Crowned  for  a  feast.      I  could  not 
see  the  Face, 


456 


MINOR  POEMS. 


The  Form  was  not  all  human.      As 

the  flame 
Streamed  over  it,  a  presence  took 

the  place 
With  awe. 
He,   turning,   took  them    by   the 

hand. 
And  led   them  each  up  the  white 

stairway,  and 
The  door  closed. 

At  that  moment  the  moon  dipped 
Behind  a  rag  of  purple  vapor,  ript 
OfE  a  great  cloud,  some  dead  wind, 

ere  it  spent 
Its  last  breath,  had  blown  open,  and 

so  rent 
You  saw  behind  blue  pools  of  light, 

and  there 
A  wild  star  swimming  in  the  lurid 

air. 
The  dream  was  darkened.     And  a 

sense  of  loss 
Fell  like  a  nightmare  on  the  land  : 

because 
The  moon  yet  lingered  in  her  cloud- 
eclipse. 
Then,  in  the  dark,  swelled  sullenly 

across 
The  waste  a  wail  of  women. 

Her  blue  lips 
The  moon  drew  up  out  of  the  cloud. 

Again 
I  had    a  vision  on  that  midnight 

plain. 

Five  women  :    and  the    beauty    of 

despair 
Upon  their  faces  :  locks  of  wild  wet 

hair, 
Clammy  with  anguish,  wandered  low 

and  loose 
O'er  their  bare  breasts,  that  seemed 

too  filled  with  trouble 
To  feel  the  damp  crawl  of  the  mid- 
night dews 
That  trickled  down  them.     One  was 

bent  half  double, 
A  dismayed  heap,  that  hung  o'er 

the  last  spark 


Of   a  lamp  slowly  dying.     As  she 

blew 
The  dull  light  redder,  and  the  dry 

wick  flew 
In  crumbling  sparkles  all  about  the 

dark, 
I  saw  a  light  of  horror  in  her  eyes  ; 
A  wild  light  on  her  flusht  cheek  ;  a 

wild  white 
On  her  dry  lips ;  an  agony  of  surprise 
Fearfully  fair. 

The  lamp  dropped.  From  my  sight 
She  fell  into  the  dark. 

Beside  her,  sat 
One  without  motion  :  and  her  stern 

face  flat 
Against  the  dark  sky. 

One,  as  still  as  death, 
Hollowed  her  hands  about  her  lamp. 

for  fear 
Some  motion  of  the  midnight,  or  her 

breath. 
Should  fan  out  the  last  flicker.  Rosy- 
clear 
The  light  oozed,  through  her  fingers, 

o'er  her  face. 
There  was  a  ruined  beauty  hovering 

there 
Over    deep    pain,   and,  dasht  with 

lurid  grace 
A  waning  bloom. 

The  light  grew  dim  and  blear  : 
And  she,  too,  slowly  darkened  in  her 

place. 
Another,  with  her  white  hands  hotly 

lockt 
About  her  damp  knees,  muttering 

madness,  rocked 
Forward  and  backward.     But  at  last 

she  stopped. 
And  her  dark  head  upon  her  bosom 

dropped 
Motionless. 

Then  one  rose  up  with  a  cry 
To  the  great  moon  ;  and  stretched  a 

wrathful  arm 
Of  wild  expostulation  to  the  sky. 
Murmuring,  "  These  earth-lamps  fail 

us  !  and  what  harm  ? 
Does  not  the  moon  shine  ?    Let  us 

rise  and  haste 


MINOR  POEMS. 


457 


To  meet  the  Bridegroom  yonder  o'er 

the  waste  ! 
For  now  I  seem  to  catch  once  more 

the  tone 
Of  viols  on  the  night.   'T  were  better 

done, 
At  worst,  to  perish  near  the  golden 

gate, 
And  fall  in  sight  of  glory  one  by  one. 
Than  here  all  night  upon  the   wild, 

to  wait 
Uncertain  ills.     Away  !  the  hour  is 

late  !" 

Again  the  moon  dipped. 

I  could  see  no  more. 
Not  the  least    g;leam  of    light  did 
heaven  afford. 

At  last,  I  heard  a  knocking  on  a  door, 
And  some  one  crying,  "Open  to  us, 

Lord  !" 
There  was  an  awful  pause. 

I  heard  my  heart 
Beat. 
Then  a  Voice—''  I  know  you  not. 

Depart." 
I  caught,  within,  a  glimpse  of  glory. 

And 
The  door  closed. 

Still  in  darkness  dreamed  the  land. 
I  could  not  see  those   women.     Not 

a  breath  ! 
Darkness,  and  awe  :  a  darkness  more 

than  death. 
The  darkness  took  them.   ***** 


LEOLINE. 

In  the  molten-golden  moonlight, 

In  the  deep  grass  warm  and  dry. 
We  watched   the    fire-fly  rise    and 
swim 

In  floating  sparkles  by. 
All  night  the  hearts  of  nightingales, 

Song-steeping,  slumbrous  leaves, 
Flowed  to  us  in  the  shadow  there 

Below  the  cottage-eaves. 

We  sang  our  songs  together 
Till  the  stars  shook  In  the  skies. 


We  spoke  —  we   spoke  of  common 
things. 
Yet  the  tears  were  in  our  eyes. 
And  my  hand, — I  know  it  trembled 
To  each  light  warm  touch  of  thine. 
But    we    were    friends,   and    only 
friends. 
My  sweet  friend,  Leoline  ! 

How  large  the  white  moon  looked, 
Dear  ! 
There  has  not  ever  been 
Since  those  old  nights  the  same  great 
light 
In  the  moons  w^hich  I  have  seen. 
I  often  wonder,  w^hen  I  think, 
If  you  have  thought  so  too. 
And  the  moonlight  has  grown  dim- 
mer, Dear, 
Than  it  used  to  be  to  you. 

And  sometimes,  w^hen    the    warm 
west-wind 
Comes  faint  across  the  sea, 
It  seems  that  you  have  breathed  on 
it, 
So  sweet  it  comes  to  me  : 
And  sometimes,  when  the  long  light 
wanes 
In  one  deep  crimson  line, 
I  muse,  "  and  does  she  watch  it  too, 
Far  off,  sweet  Leoline  ?" 

And  often,  leaning  all  day  long 

My  head  upon  my  hands. 
My  heart  aches  for  the  vanisht  time 

In  the  far  fair  foreign  lands  : 
Thinking  sadlj- — "  Is  she  happy  ? 

Has  she  tears  for  those  old  liours  ? 
And  the  cottage  in  the  starlight  ? 

And   the  songs  among  the  flow- 
ers?" 

One  night  we  sat  below  the  porch, 

And  out  in  that  w^arm  air, 
Afire-fly,  like  a  dying  star. 

Fell  tangled  in  her  hair  ; 
But  I  kissed  him  lightly  off  again. 

And  he  glittered  up  the  vine, 
And  died  into  the  darkness 

For  the  love  of  Leoline  ! 


4S8 


MINOR  POEMS, 


Between  two  songs  of  Petrarch 

I've  a  purple  rose-leaf  prest, 
More    sweet    than    common    rose- 
leaves, 

For  it  once  lay  in  her  breast. 
When  she  gave  me  that  her  eyes 
were  wet, 

The  rose  was  full  of  dew. 
The  rose  is  withered  long  ago  ; 

The  page  is  blistered  too. 

There's  a  blue  flower  in  my  garden, 

The  bee  loves  more  than  all  : 
The  bee  and  I,  we  love  it  both, 

Though  it  is  frail  and  small. 
She  loved  it  too  — long,  long  ago  : 

Her  love  was  less  than  mine. 
Still     we    are    friends,    but     only 
friends. 

My  lost  love,  Leoline  ! 


SPRING  AND  WINTER. 

The  world  buds  every  year  : 
But  the  heart  just  once,  and  when 

The  blossom  falls  off  sere 

No  new  blossom  comes  again. 

Ah,  the  rose  goes  with  the  wind  : 

But  the  thorns  remain  behind. 

Was  it  well  in  him,  if  he 

Felt  not  love,  to  speak  of  love  so  ? 
If  he  still  unmoved  must  be, 

Was  it  nobly  sought  to  move  so  ? 
— Pluck  the  flower,  and  yet  not  wear 

it- 
Spurn,  despise  it,  yet  not  spare  it  ? 

Need  he  say  that  I  was  fair. 
With  such  meaning  in  his  tone. 

Just  to  speak  of  one  whose  hair 
Had  the  same  tinge  as  my  own  ? 

Pluck  my  life  up,  root  and  bloom. 

Just  to  plant  it  on  her  tomb  ? 

And  she'd  scarce  so  fair  a  face 
(So  he  used  to  say)  as  mine  : 

And  her  form  had  far  less  grace  : 
And  her  brow  was  far  less  fine  : 

But  'twas  just  that  he  loved  then 

More  than  he  can  love  again. 


Why,  if  Beauty  could  not  bind  him. 
Need  he  praise  me,  speaking  low  : 

Use  my  face  just  to  remind  him 
How  no    face  could  please  him 
now  ? 

Why,  if  loving  could  not  move  him 

Did  he  teach  me  still  to  love  him  ? 

And  he  said  my  eyes  were  bright. 
But  his  own,  he  said,  were  dim  : 

And  my  hand,  he  said,  was  white, 
But  what  was  that  to  him  ? 

"  For,"  he  said,  "  in  gazing  at  you 

I  seem  gazing  at  a  statue." 

"Yes,"   he  said,    "he  had   grown 
wise  now  : 

He  had  suffered  much  of  yore  : 
But,  a  fair  face  to  his  eyes  now. 

Was  a  fair  face,  and  no  more. 
Yet  the  anguish  and  the  bliss. 
And  the  dream  too,  had  been  his." 

Then,  why  talk  of  "  lost  romances  " 

Being  "  sick  of  sentiment  !  " 
And  what  meant  those   tones  and 
glances 
If  real  love  was  never  neant  ? 
Why,  if  his   own  youth  were   with- 
ered. 
Must  mine  also  have  been  gathered? 

Why  those    words    a    thought    too 
tender 
For  the  commonplaces  spoken  ? 

Looks  whose    meaning    seemed  to 
render 
Help  to  words  when  speech  came 
broken  ? 

Why  so  late  in  July  moonlight 

Just  to  say  what's   said  by  noon- 
light  ? 

And  why  praise  my  youth  for  glad- 
ness. 
Keeping  something  in  his  smile 
Which  turned  all  my  youth  to  sad- 
ness. 
He  still  smiling  all  the  while  ? 
Since,  when  so  my  youth  was  over 
He    said  —  "  Seek    some    yoimger 
lover ! " 


MINOR  POEMS. 


459 


*'  For  the  world  buds  once  a  year, 
But  the  heart  just  once,"  he  said. 

True  !  ...  so  now  that  Spring  is 
here 
AH  my  flowers,  like  his,  are  dead. 

And  the  rose  drops  in  the  wind. 

But  the  thorns  remain  behind. 


KIXG  HERMANDIAZ. 

Thex,  standing  by  the  shore,  I  saw 

tlie  moon 
Change  hue,   and  dwindle    in  the 

west,  as  when 
"Warm  looks  fade  inward  out  of  dying 

eyes. 
And  the  dim  sea  began  to  moan. 

I  knew 
My  hour  had  come,  and  to  the  bark 

I  went. 
Still  were  the  stately  decks,  and  hung 

with  silk 
Of  stole'd  crimson  :  at  the  mast-head 

burned 
A  steadfast  tire  with  influence  like  a 

star, 
And  underntath  a  couch  of  gold.     I 

loosed 
The  dripping  chain.     There  was  not 

any  wind  : 
But  all  at  once  the  magic  sails  began 
To  belly  and  heave,  and  like  a  bat 

that  wakes 
And    flits    by    night,  beneath    her 

swarthy  wings 
The  black  ship  rocked  and  moved. 

I  heard  anon 
A  humming  in   the   cordage  and  a 

sound 
Like  bees  in  summer,  and  the  bark 

went  on, 
And  on,  and   on,  until   at  last  the 

world 
tVas  rolled  away  and  folded  out  of 

sight, 
ind  I  was  all  alone  on  the  great  sea. 
There  a  deep  awe  fell  on  my  spirit. 

My  wound 
Began  to  bite.    I,  gazing  round,  be- 
held 
A  lady  sitting  silent  at  the  helm, 


A  woman  white  as  death,  and  fair  as 

dreams. 
I  would  have  asked  her  "  Whither 

do  we  sail  ?  " 
And    "how?"    but  that  my    fear 

clung  «t  my  heart. 
And  held  me  still.     She,  answering 

my  doubt. 
Said  slowly,  ''To  the  Isle  of  Ava- 

lon." 

And  straightway   we  were  nigh    a 

strand  all  gold. 
That  glittered  in'the  moon  between 

the  dusk 
Of  hanging  bowers  made  rich  with 

blooms  and  balms, 
From  which  faint  gusts  came  to  me; 

and  I  heard 
A  sound  of  lutes  among  the  vales, 

and  songs 
And  voices  faint  like  voices  through 

a  dream 
That  said  or  seemed  to  say.  "Hail, 

Hermandiaz  ! " 


SOXG. 

IiS"  the  warm,  black  mill-pool  wink- 
ing. 

The  firjt  doubtful  star  shines  blue: 
And  alone  here  I  lie  thinking 

O  such  happy  thoughts  of  you  ! 

Up  the  porch  the  roses  clamber, 
And   the  flowers  we    sowed  last 
June  ; 

And  the  casement  of  your  chamber 
Shines  between  them  to  the  moon. 

Look  out.  Love  !  fling  wide  the  lat- 
tice : 

Wind  the  red  rose  in  your  hair. 
And  the  little  white  clematis 

Which  I  plucked  for  you  to  wear  : 

Or  come  down,  and  let  me  hear  you 
Singing  in  the  scented  grass. 

Through  tall  cowslips  nodding  near 
you. 
Just  to  touch  you  as  you  pass 


46o 


MINOR  POEMS, 


For.  where  you  pass,  the  air 
With  wann  hints  of  love  grows 
wise  : 

You — the  dew  on  your  dira  hair, 
And  the  smile  in  your  soft  eyes  ! 

From     the     hayfield    comes     your 
brother  : 
There  your  sisters  stand  together, 
Singing  clear  to  one  another 

Through  the   dark  blue  summer 
weather, 

And  the  maid  the  latch  is  clinking 
As  she  lets  her  lover  through  : 

But  alone,  Love,  I  lie  thinking 
O  such  tender  thoughts  of  you  ! 


THE  SWALLOW. 

O  SWALLOW  chirping  in  the  spark- 
ling eves. 
Why  hast  thou  left  far  south  thy 
fairy  homes. 
To  build   between  these    drenche'd 
April  leaves. 
And  sing  me  songs  of  Spring  be- 
fore it  comes  ? 

Too  soon  thou  singest !    Yon  black 

stubborn  thorn 
Bursts  not  a  bud  :  the  sneaping 

wind  drifts  on. 
She  that  once  flung   thee   crumbs, 

and  in  the  morn 
Sang  from  the  lattice  where  thou 

sing'st,  is  gone. 
Here  is  no  Spring.     Thy  flight  yet 

further  follow. 
Fly  off,  vain  swallow  ! 

Thou  com'st  to  mock  me  with  re- 
membered things. 
I  love  thee  not,  O  bird  for  me  too 

gay. 

That  which  I  want  thou  hast,— the 

gift  of  wings  : 
Grief — which  I  have— thou  hast 

not.     Fly  away  ! 
What  hath  my  roof  for  thee  ?     My 

cold  dark  roof. 


Beneath    whose    weeping    thatch 
thine  eggs  will  freeze  ! 
Summer  will  halt  not  here,  so  keep 
aloof. 
Others  are  gone ;  go  thou.   In  those 
wet  trees 
I  see  no  Spring,  though  thou  still 

singest  of  it. 
Fare  hence,  false  prophet  ! 

CONTRABAND. 

A  HEAP  of  low,  dark,  rocky  coast, 
Where  the  blue-black  sea  sleeps 
smooth  and  even  : 
And  the  sun,  just  over  the  reefs  at 
most. 
In  the  amber  part  of  a  pale  blue 
heaven  : 

A  village  asleep  below  the  pines. 
Hid  up  the  gray  shore  from  the 
low  slow  sun  : 
And  a  maiden  that  lingers  among 
the  vines. 
With  her  feet  in  the  dews,  and  her 
locks  undone  : 

The   half-moon  melting  out  of  the 
sky  ; 
And,  just  to  be  seen  still,  a  star 
here,  a  star  there, 
Faint,  high  up  in  the  heart  of  the 
heaven  ;  so  high 
And  so  faint,  you  can  scarcely  be 
sure  that  they  are  there. 

And  one  of  that  small,  black,  raking 
craft  ; 
Two  swivel  guns  on  a  round  deck 
handy  ; 
And  a  great  sloop  sail  with  the  wind 
abaft  ; 
And  four  brown  thieves  round  a 
cask  of  brandy. 

That's  my  life,  as  I  left  it  last. 
And  what  it  may  be  henceforth  I 
know  not. 
But  all  that  I  keep  of  the  merry 
Past 
Are  trifles  like  these,  which  I  care 
to  show  not ; — 


MINOR  POEMS. 


461 


A  leathern  flask,  and  a  necklace  of 
pearl  ; 
These  rusty  pistols,  this  tattered 
chart,  Friend, 
And  the  soft  dark  half  of  a  raven 
curl  ; 
And,  at  evening,  the  thought  of  a 
true,  true  heart,  Friend. 

EVENING. 

Already  evening  !   In  the  duskiest 
nook 
Of    yon   dusk  corner,   under  the 

Death's-head, 
Between  the  alembecs,  thrust  this 
legended, 
And    iron-bound,    and    melancholy 

book, 
For  I  will  read  no  longer.    The  loud 
brook 
Shelves  his  sharp  light  up  shallow 

banks  thin-spread  ; 
The  slumbrous  west  grows  slowly 
red,  and  red  : 
Up  from  the  ripened  corn  her  silver 

hook 
'  The  moon  is  lifting  :    and   deli- 

ciously 
Along  the  warm  blue  hills  the  day 
declines  : 
The  first  star  brightens  while  she 

waits  for  me. 
And  round  her  swelling  heart  the 
zone  grows  tight  : 
Musing,  half-sad,   in  her  soft   hair 
she  twines 
The  white  rose,  whispering,  *'he 
will  come  to-night  !  " 

ADON. 

I  WILL  not  weep  for  Adon  ! 
I  will  not  waste  my  breatk  to  draw 

thick  sighs 
For  Spring's  dead  greenness.      All 

the  orient  skies 
Are    husht,   and    breathing    out    a 

bright  surprise 
Kound  morning's  marshalling  star  : 

Rise,  Eos,  rise  \ 


Day's  dazzling  spears  are  up  :  the 

faint  stars  fade  on 
The  white  hills,— cold,  like  Adon  ! 

O'er  crag,  and  spar,  and  splinter 
Break  down,  and  roll  the  amber  mist, 

stern  light. 
The  black    pines  dream  of   dawn. 

The  skirts  of  night 
Are    ravelled    in    the    East.      And 

planted  bright 
In  heaven,   the  roots   of  ice  shine, 
sharp  and  white, 
In  frozen  ray,  and  spar,  and  spike, 

and  splinter. 
Within  me  and  without,  all's  Win- 
ter. 

Why  should  I  weep  for  Adon  ? 
Am  I,  because  the  sweet  Past  is  no 

more, 
Dead,  as  the  leaves  upon  the  graves 

of  yore  ? 
I  will  breathe  boldly,  though  the  air 

be  frore 
With  freezing  fire.     Life  still  beats 
at  the  core 
Of  the  world's  heart,  though  Death 

his  awe  hath  laid  on 
This  dumb  white  corpse  of  Adon. 


THE  PROPHET. 

When  the  East  lightens  with  strange 

hints  of  morn. 
The  first  tinge  of  the  growing  glory 

takes 
The  cold  crown  of  some  husht  high 

alp  forlorn, 
T\1iile  yet  o'er  vales  below  the  dark 

is  spread. 
Even  so  the  dawning  Age,  in  silence, 

breaks, 
O  solitary  soul,  on  thy  still  head  : 
And  we,  that  watch  below  with  rev- 
erent fear. 
Seeing  thee  crowned,  do  kuow  that 

day  is  near. 


462 


MINOR  POEMS. 


WEALTH. 

Was  it  not  enough  to  dream  the  day 
to  death 
Grandly  ?  and  finely  feed  on  faint 
perfumes  ? 
Between  the  heavy  lilacs  draw  thick 
breath, 
While   the  noon    hummed    from 
glowing  citron-glooms  ? 

Or    walk    with    Morning    in    these 
dewy  bowers, 
'Mid  sheaved  lilies,  and  the  moth- 
loved  lips 
Of  purple  asters,  bearded  flat  sun- 
flowers, 
And  milk-white  crumpled    pinks 
with  blood  i'  the  tips  ? 

But  I  must  also,  gazing  upon  thee. 
Pine    with    delicious    pain,    and 
subtle  smart. 
Till  I  felt  heavy  immortality. 
Laden  vvith  looks  of  thine,  weigh 
on  my  heart ! 


WANT. 

You  swore  you  loved  me  all  last 
June  : 
And  now  December's  come  and 
gone. 
The  Summer  went  with  you — too 
soon. 
The  Winter  goes — alone. 

Next  Spring  the  leaves  will  all  be 
be  green  : 
But  love  like  ours,  once  turned  to 
pain. 
Can  be  no  more  what  it  hath  been. 
Though  roses  bloom  again. 

Return,  return  the  unvalued  wealth 

I  gave  !    which    scarcely    profits 

you— 

The  heart's   lost  youth— the  soul's 

lost  health — 

In  vain  !  .  .  .  false  friend,  adieu  ! 


I  keep  one  faded  violet 

Of    all    once    ours, — you  left  no 
more. 
What  I  have  lost  I  may  forget, 

But  you  cannot  restore. 


A  BIRD  AT  SUNSET. 

Wild  bird,  that  wingest  wide  the 
glimmering  moors. 
Whither,   by  belts    of    yellowing,' 
Avoods  away  ? 
With  pausing  sunset  thy  wild  heart 
allures 
Deep  into  dying  day  ? 

Would  that  my  heart,  on  wings  like 
thine,  could  pass 
Where  stars  their  light  in  rosy  re- 
gions lose, — 
A    happy  shadow    o'er   the    warm 
brown  grass. 
Falling  with  falling  dews  ! 

Hast  thou,  like  me,  some  true-love 
of  thine  own, 
In  fairy  lands  beyond  the  utmost 
seas  ; 
Who  there,   unsolaced,   yearns    for 
thee  alone, 
And  sings  to  silent  trees  ? 

O  tell  that  woodbird  that  the  Sum- 
mer grieves, 
And  the  suns  darken  and  the  days 
grow  cold  ; 
And,  tell  her,  love  will  fade  with  fad- 
ing leaves. 
And  cease  in  common  mould. 

Fly  from  the  winter  of  the  world  to 
her  ! 
Fly,  happy  bird  !    I  follow  in  thy 
flight. 
Till  thou  art  lost  o'er  yonder  fringe 
of  fir 
In  baths  of  crimson  light. 

My  l«)ve  is  dying  far  away  from  me. 
She  sits  and  saddens  in  the  fading 
west. 


MINOR  POEMS. 


463 


For  her  I  mourn  all  day,  and  pine 
to  be 
At  night  upon  her  breast. 


m    TRAVEL. 

Now  our  white  sail  flutters  down  : 
Now  it  broadly  takes  the  breeze  : 
Kow  the  wharves  upon  the  town, 
Lessening,  leave  us  by  degrees. 
Blithely  blows  the  morning,  shaking 
On  your  cheek  the  loosened  curls  . 
Eound  our    prow  the    cleft    wave, 

breaking. 
Tumbles  off  in  heape'd  pearls, 
Which  in  forks  of  foam  unite. 
And  run  seething  out  to  sea, 
Where  o'er  gleams  of  briny  light, 
Dip  the  dancing  gulls  in  glee. 
Now  the  momitain.  serpentine 
Slips  out  many  a  snaky  line 
Down  the  dark  blue  ocean-spine. 
From  the  boatside,  while  we  pass, 
1  can  see,  as  in  a  glass, 
Pirates  on  the  flat  sea-sand, 
Carousing  ere  they  put  from  land  ; 
And  the  purple-pointed  crests 
Of  hills  whereon  the  morning  rests 
Whose  ethereal  vivid  peaks 
Glimmer  in  the  lucid  creeks. 
Now  these  wind  away  ;  and  now 
Hamlets  up  the  mountain-brow 
Peep  and  peer  from  roof  to  roof  ;■ 
And  gray  castle-walls  aloof 
O'er  wide  vineyards  just  in  grape. 
From  whose  serfs  old  Barons  held 
Tax  and  t(  !■  in  feudal  eld, 
( -reep  out  of  the  uncoiling  cape. 
Now  the  long  low  layer  of  mist 
A  slow  trouble  rolls  and  lifts. 
With  a  broken  billowy  motion. 
From  the  rocks  and  from  the  rifts. 
Laying  bare,  just  here  and  there. 
Black  stone-pines,  at  morn  dew-kist 
By  salt  winds  from  bound  to  bound 
Of  the  great  sea  freshening  round  , 
AVattled  folds  on  bleak  brown  downs 
Sloping  high  o'er  sleepy  towns  ; 
Lengths  of   shore  and  breadths  of 

ocean. 


Love,  lean  here  upon  my  shoulder, 
And  look  yonder,  love,  with  me  : 
Now  I  think  that  I  can  see 
In  the  merry  market-places 
Sudden  warmths  of  sunny  faces  : 
Many  a  lovely  laughing  naaiden 
Bearing  on  her  loose  dark  locks 
Rich  fruit-baskets  heavy-laden, 
In  and  out  among  the  rocks. 
Knowing  not  that  we  behold  her. 
Now,  love,  tell  me,  can  you  hear, 
Growing  nearer,  and  more  near, 
Sound  of  song,  and  plash  of  oar, 
From  wild  bays,  and  inlets  hoar, 
While  above  yon  isles  afar 
Ghostlike  sinks  last  night's  last  star? 

CHANGES. 
Whom  first  we  love,  you  know,  we 
seldom  wed. 
Time  rules  us  all.    And  Life,  in- 
deed, is  not 
The  thing  we  planned  it  out  ere  hope 
was  dead. 
And    then,    we    women    cannot 
choose  our  lot. 

Much  must  be  borne  which  it  is  hard 
to  bear  : 
Much  given  away  which  it  were 
sweet  to  keep. 
God  help  us  all  !  who  need,  indeed. 
His  care. 
And  yet,   I  know,  the  Shepherd 
loves  His  sheep. 

My  little  boy  begins  to  babble  now 
Upon  my  knee  his  earliest  infant 
prayer. 
He  has  his  father's  eager  eyes,   I 
knoM^ 
And,  they  say  too,  his  mother's 
sunny  hair. 

But  when  he  sleeps  and  smiles  upon 
my  knee. 
And  I  can  feel  his  light  breath 
come  and  go, 
I  think  of  one    (Heaven  help  and 
pity  me  !) 
Who  loved  me,  and  whom  I  loved, 
long  ago. 


464 


MINOR  POEMS. 


Who  might  have  been  .  .  .  ah,  what 
I  dare  no;:  think  ! 
We  all  are  changed.     God  judges 
for  us  best. 
God  help  us  do  our  duty,  and  not 
shrink, 
And  trust  in  heaven  humbly  for 
the  rest. 

But  blame  us  women  not,  if  some 
appear 
Too  cold  at  times  ;  and  some  too 
gay  and  light. 
Some  griefs  gnaw  deep.    Some  woes 
are  hard  to  bear. 
Who  knows  the  Past?   and  who 
can  judge  us  right  ? 

Ah,  were  we  judged  by  what  we 
might  have  been. 
And  not  by  what  we  are,  too  apt 
to  fall  ! 
My  little  child — he  sleeps  and  smiles 
between 
These     thoughts    .-tnd    me.      In 
heaven  we  shall  know  all  ! 


JUDICIUM  PARIDIS. 

I  SAID,  when  young,   "  Beauty's  the 
supreme  joy. 
Her  I  will  choose,  and  in  all  forms 

will  face  her  ; 
Eye  to  eye,  lip  to  lip,  and  so  em- 
brace her 
With  my  whole  heart."     I  said  this 
being  a  boy. 

"  First,  I  will  seek  her, — naked,  or 
clad  only 
In  her  own  godhead,  as  I  know  of 

yore 
Great  bards  beheld  her."     So  by 
sea  and  shore 
I  sought  her,  and  among  the  moun- 
tains lonely. 

*'  There  be  great  sunsets  in  the  won- 
drous West  ; 
And  marvel  in  the  orbings  of  the 
moon  : 


'  And  glory  in  the  jubilees  of  June: 
And  power  in  the  deep  ocean.     For 
the  rest, 

"  Green-glaring      glaciers  ;     purple 
clouds  of  pine 
White  walls  of  ever-roaring  cata- 
racts ; 
Blue  thunder  drifting  over  thirsty 
tracts  ; 
The  homes  of  eagles  ;  these,  too,  are 
divine, 

"  And  terror  shall  not  daunt  me — so 
it  be 
Beautiful  —  or    in    storm    or    in 

eclipse  : 
Rocking  pink  shells,  or  wrecking 
freighted  ships, 
I  shall  not  shrink  to  find  her  in  the 
sea. 

"  Next,  I  will  seek  her — in  all  shapes 
of  wood. 
Or  brass,  or  marble  ;  or  in  colors 

clad  ; 
And  sensuous  lines,  to  make  my 
spirit  glad. 
And  she  shall  change  her  dress  with 
every  mood. 

"  Rose-latticed    casements,   lone  in 
summer  lands — 
Some  witch's  bower  :  pale  sailors 

on  the  marge 
Of  magic  seas,  in  an  enchanted 
barge 
Stranded,  at  sunset,  upon  jewelled 
sands  : 

"White  nymphs  among  the  lilies: 
shepherd  kings  : 
And    pink-hooved   Fawns  :    and 

mooned  Endymions  : 
From  every  channel  through  which 
Beauty  runs 
To  fertilize  the  world  with  lovely 
things. 

"  I  will  draw  freely,  and  be  satisfied. 
Also,  all  legends  of  her  apparition 


MmOR  POEMS. 


465 


To  men,  in  earliest  times,  in  each 
condition, 
I  will  inscribe  on  portraits  of  my 
bride. 

*'  Then,  that  no  single  sense  of  her 
be  wanting. 
Music  ;    and  all  voluptuous  com- 
binations 
Of    sound,   with  their  melodious 
palpitations 
To  charm  the  ear,  the  cells  of  fancy 
haunting. 

"  And  in  her  courts  my  life  shall  be 
outrolled 
As    one    unfurls    some    gorgeous 

tapestry, 
Wrought  o'er  with  old  Olympian 
heraldry, 
All  purple-woven  stiff  with  blazing 
gold. 

"And  I  will  choose  no    sight  for 
tears  to  flow  : 
I  will  not  look  at  sorrow  :  I  will 

see 
Nothing    less    fair    and    full    of 
majesty 
Than  young  Apollo  leaning  on  his 
bow. 

*'  And  I  will  let  things  come  and  go: 
nor  range 
For    knowledge  :    but    from    mo- 
ments pluck  delight, 
The  while  the  great  days  ope  and 
shut  in  light. 
And  wax  and  wane  about  me,  rich 
with  change. 

"Some  cup  of    dim  hills,  where  a 
white  moon  lies, 
Dropt  out  of  weary  skies  without 

a  breath, 
In  a  great  pool  :  a  slumbrous  vale 
beneath  : 
And  blue  damps  prickling  into  white 
fire-flies : 


"Some  sunset  vision  of   an  Oread, 
less 
Than  half  an  hour  ere  moonrise 

caught  asleep 
With  a  flusht  cheek,  among  crusht 
violets  deep, — 
A  warm  half-glimpse  of  milk-white 
nakedness, 

"  On  sumptuous  summer  eves:  shall 
wake  for  me 
Rapture  from  all  the  various  stops 

of  life  : 
Making  it  like  some  charmed  Ar- 
cadian fife 
Filled    by    a    wood-god    with    his 
ecstasy." 

These  things  I  said  while  I  was  yet 
a  boy. 
And  the  world  showed  as  between 

dream  and  waking 
A  man  may  see  the  face  he  loves. 
So,  breaking 
Silence,  I  cried  ..."  Thou  art  the 
supreme  Joy  ! " 

My  spirit,  as  a  lark  hid  near  the  sun, 
Carolled    at    morning.      But   ere 

she  had  dropt 
Half    down    the    rainbow-colored 
years  that  propped 
Her  gold  cloud  up,  and  broadly,  one 
by  one 

The    world's     great     harvest-lands 
broke  on  her  eye, 
She  changed  her  tone,  ..."  What 

is  it  I  may  keep  ? 
For  look    here,   how    the    merry 
reapers  reap  : 
Even  children  glean  :  and  each  puts 
something  by. 

"  The    pomps    of     morning    pass : 
when  evening  comes, 
What  is  retained  of  these  which  I 

may  show  ? 
If  for  the  hills  I  leave  the  fields 
below 
I  fear  to  die  an  exile  from  men's 
homes. 


466 


MINOR  POEMS. 


*' Though    here    I    see    the    orient 
pageants  pass, 
I  am  not  richer  than  the  merest 

hind 
That  toils  below,  all  day,  among 
his  kind, 
And  clinks  at  eve  glad  horns  in  the 
dry  grass." 

Then,  pondering  long,   at  length  I 
made  confession. 
"  I  have  erred  much,  rejecting  all 

that  man  did  '. 
For  all  my  pains  I  shall  go  empty 
handed  ; 
And  Beauty,  of  its  nature  foils  pos- 
session." 

Thereafter,  I  said  .  .  .  *'  Knowledge 
is  most  fair. 
Surely  to  know  is  better  than  to 

see 
To  see  is  loss  ;  to  know  is  gain  : 
and  we 
Grow  old.    I  will  store  thriftily,  with 
care." 

In  which  mood  I  endured  for  many 
years. 
Valuing  all  things  for  their  further 

uses : 
And  seeking   knowledge    at    all 
open  sluices  ; 
Though  oft  the  stream  turned  brack- 
ish with  my  tears. 

Yet  not  the  less,  for  years  in  this 
same  mood 
I  rested  :    nor  from  any    object 

turned 
That  had  its  secret  to  be  spelled 
and  learned, 
Murmuring    ever,    "  Knowledge    is 
most  good." 

Unto  which    end   I    shunned  the 
revelling 
And  ignorant  crowd,  that  eat  the 

fruits  and  die  : 
And    called    out  Plato    from  his 
century 
To  be    my  helpmate  :    and    made 
Homer  sing. 


Until  the    awful  Past  in  gathered 
heaps 
Weighed   on  my  brain,  and  sunk 

into  my  soul, 
And  saddened  through  my  nature, 
till  the  whole 
Of  life   was   darkened  downward  to 
the  deeps. 

And,  wave  on  wave,  the  melancholy 
ages 
Crept  o'er  my    spirit  :    and    the 

years  displaced 
The  landmarks  of  the  days  :  life 
waned,  effaced 
From  action  by  the  sorrows  of  the 
sages : 

And  my  identity  became  at  last 
The  record  of  those  others  :  or,  if 

more, 
A  hollow  shell  the  sea  sung  in  :  a 
shore 
Of     footprints    which    the     waves 
washed  from  it  fast. 

And  all  was  as  a  dream  whence, 

holding  breath, 
It  seemed,  at  times,  just  possible  to 

break 
By  some  wild  nervous  effort,  with 

a  shriek. 
Into  the  real  world  of  life  and  death. 

But  that  thought  saved  me.  Through 
the  dark  I  screamed 
Against  the     darkness,    and    the 

darkness  broke, 
And  broke   that  nightmare :   back 
to  life  I  woke, 
Though    weary     with    the    dream 
which  I  had  dreamed. 

O  life  !    life  !    life  !    With  laughter 
and  with  tears 
I  tried  myself  :  I  knew  that  I  had 

need 
Of  pain  to  prove  that  this  was  life 
indeed, 
With  its  warm  privilege  of  hopes  and 
fears. 


MINOR  POEMS. 


467 


O  Love  of  man  made  Life  of  man, 
that  saves  ! 
O  man,  that  standest  looking  on 

the  light  ; 
That  standest  on  the  forces  of  the 
night  ! 
That  standest  up  between  the  stars 
and  graves  I 

O  man  !  by  man's  dread  privilege  of 
pain, 
Dare  not  to  scorn  thine  own  soul 

nor  thy  brother's  : 
Though  thou  be  more  or  less  than 
all  the  others. 
Man's  life  is  all  too  sad  for  man's  dis- 
dain. 

The  smiles  of  seraphs  are  less  awful 
far 
Than  are  the  tears  of  this  human- 
ity, 
That  soimd,  in  dropping,  through 
Eternity, 
Heard  in  God's    ear    beyond    the 
fiu-thest  star. 

If  that  be  true, — the  hereditary  hate 
Of  Love's    lost  Rebel,  since  the 

worlds  began, — 
The  very  Fiend,  in  hating,  honors 
Man  • 
Flattering  with  Devil-homage  Man's 
estate. 

If  two  Eternities,  at  strife  for  us, 
Around    each  human    soul  wage 

silent  war. 
Dare  we  disdain  ourselves,  though 
fall'n  we  are. 
With  Hell   and  Heaven  looking  on 
us  thus  ? 

Whom  God  hath  loved,  whom  Devils 
dare  not  scorn, 
Despise   not  thou,  —  the  meanest 

human  creature. 
Climb,  if  thou  canst,  the   heights 
of  thine  own  nature, 
And  look  toward  Paradise    where 
each  was  born. 


So  I  spread  sackcloth  on  my  former 
pride  : 
And  sat  down,  clothed  and  covered 

up  with  shame  : 
And  cried  to  God  to  take  away  my 
blame 
Among  my  brethren  :  and  to  these 
I  cried 

To  come  between  my  crime  and  my 
despair. 
That  they  might  help  my  heart  up, 

When  God  sent 
Upon  my  soul  its  proper  punish- 
ment, 
Lest  that  should  be  too  great  for  me 
to  bear. 

And    so    I    made  my  choice  :  and 
learned  to  live 
Again,  and  worship,  as  my  spirit 

yearned  : 
So  much  had  been   admired — so 
much  been  learned — 
So  much  been  given    me — O,  how 
much  to  give  ! 

Here  is  the  choice,   and  now   the 
time,  O  chooser  ! 
Endless  the  consequence  though 

brief  the  choice. 
Echoes  are  waked  down  ages  by 
thy  voice  : 
Speak  :  and  be  thou  the  gainer  or 
the  loser. 

And    I    bethought    me     long    .  .  . 
"  Though  garners  split. 
If  none  but  thou  be  fed  art  thou 

more  full  ?  " 
For  surely    Knowledge    and    the 
Beautiful 
Are  human  ;  must  have  love,  or  die 
for  it  ! 

To  Give  is  better  than  to  Know  or 

See  : 
And  both  are  means  :  and  neither 

is  the  end  : 
Knowing  and  seeing,  if  none  call 

thee  friend, 
Beauty  and    knowledge   have  done 

naught  for  thee. 


468 


MmOR  POEMS. 


Tliough  I  at  Aphrodite  all  day  long 
Gaze  until  sunset  with  a  thirsty 

eye, 
I  shall  not  drain  her  boundless 
beauty  dry 
By  that  wild  gaze  :  nor  do  her  fair 
face  wrong. 

For  who  gives,  giving,  doth  win  back 
his  gift : 
And  knowledge  by  division  grows 

to  more  : 
Wlio    hides    the    Master's    talent 
shall  die  poor, 
And  starve  at  last  of  his  own  thank- 
less thrift. 

I  did  this  for  another  :  and,  behold  ! 
My  work  hath  blood  in  it  :  but 

thine  hath  none  : 
Done  for  thyself,  it  dies  in  being 
done  : 
To  what  thou  buyest  thou  thyself 
art  sold. 

Give  thyself  utterly  away.     Be  lost. 
Choose  someone,  some  thing  :  not 

.  thyself,  thine  own  : 
Thou  canst  not  perish  :  but,  thrice 
greater  grown, — 
Thy  gain  the  greatest  where  thy  loss 
was  most, — 

Thou  in  another  shalt  thyself  new- 
find. 
The  single  globule,  lost  in  the  wide 

sea, 
Becomes   an  ocean.     Each  iden- 
tity 
Is  greatest  in  the  greatness  of  its 
kind. 

Who  serves   for  gain,   a  slave,  by 
thankless  pelf 
Is    paid  ;    who    gives  himself    is 

priceless,  free. 
I  give  myself,  a  man,  to  God  :  lo, 
He 
Renders  me  back  a  saint  unto  my- 
self I 


NIGHT. 

Come    to   me,   not    as    once   thou 
camest.  Night  ! 

With  light  and    splendor  up  the 
gorgeous  West  ; 

Easing  the  heart's  rich  sense  of 
thee  with  sighs 

Sobbed    out    of    all    emotion    on 
Love's  breast  ; 

While  the  dark  world  waned  wav- 
ering into  rest, 
Half  seen  athwart  the  dim  delicious 
light 

Of  languid  eyes  : 

But  softly,  soberly  ;  and  dark— more 
dark  ! 
Till  my  life's  shadow  lose  itself  in 
thine. 
Athwart    the    light    of    slowly- 
gathering  tears, 
That  come  between  me  and  the 

starlight,  shine 
From    distant    melancholy    deeps 
divine, 
While  day  slips  downward  through  a 
rosy  arc 
To  other  spheres. 

SONG. 

Flow,  freshly  flow. 

Dark  stream,  below  ! 

While  stars  grow  light  above  : 

By  willowy  banks,  through  lonely 

downs, 
Past  terraced  walls  in  silent  towns, 
And  bear  me  to  my  love  I 

Still,  as  we  go. 

Blow,  gently  blow. 

Warm  wind,  and  blithely  move 

These    dreamy    sails,    that    slowly 

glide, — 
A  shadow  on  the  shining  tide 
That  bears  me  to  my  love. 

Fade,  sweetly  fade 
In  dewy  shade 
On  lonely  grange  and  grove, 
O    lingering   day  I   and   bring    thG 
night 


MINOR  POEMS. 


469 


Through  all  her  milk-white  mazes 

bright 
That  tremble  o'er  my  love. 

The  sunset  wanes 

From  twinkling  panes. 

Dim,  misty  myriads  move 

Down  glimmering  streets.    One  light 

I  see — 
One  happy  light,  that  shines  for  me, 
And  lights  me  to  my  love  ! 


FORBEARANCE. 

Call  me  not,  Love,  unthankful  or 
unkind, 
That  I  have  left  my  heart  with 
thee,  and  fled. 
I  were  not  worth  that  wealth  which 
I  resigned. 
Had  I  not  chosen  poverty  instead. 

Grant  me  but  solitude  !  I  dare  not 
swerve 
From    my    soul's    law, — a    slave, 
though  serving  thee. 
I  but  forbear  more  grandly  to  de- 
serve : 
The  free  gift  only  cometh  of  the 
free. 


HELIOS  HYPERIONIDES. 

Helios    all  day  long   his  allotted 
labor  pursues  ; 
No  rest  to  his  passionate  heart  and 
his  panting  horses  given. 
From  the  moment  when  roseate-fin- 
gered Eos  kindles  the  dews 
And    spurns   the    salt    sea-floors, 
ascending  silvery  the  heaven. 
Until  from  the  hand  of  Eos  Hesperos, 
trembling,  receives 
His  fragrant  lamp,  and  faint  in  the 
twilight  hangs  it  up. 
Then  the  over-wearied  son  of  Hyper- 
ion lightly  leaves 
His  dusty  chariot,  and  softly  slips 
into  his  golden  cup  : 
And  to  holy  Ethiopia,  mider  the 
ocean-stream. 


Back  from  the  sunken  retreats  of 
the  sweet  Hesperides, 
Leaving  his  unloved  labor,  leaving 
his  unyoked  team, 
He  sails  to  his  much-loved  wife  ; 
and  stretches  his  limbs  at  ease 
In  a  laurelled  lawn  divine,  on  a  bed 
of  beaten  gold. 
Where  he  pleasantly  sleeps,  forget- 
ting his  travel  by  lands  and  seas, 
Till  again  the  clear-eyed  Eos  comes 
with  a  finger  cold. 
And  again,  from  his  white  wife 
severed,  Hyperionides 
Leaps    into    his    flaming    chariot, 
angrily  gathers  the  reins, 
Headlong  flings  his  course  through 
Uranos,  much  in  wrath, 
And  over  the  seas  and  mountains, 
over  the  rivers  and  plains. 
Chafed     at     heart,    tumultuous, 
pushes  his  burning  path. 


ELISABETTA   SIRANL 

1665. 

Just  to  begin,— and  end !  so  much,— 
no  more  ! 
To  touch  upon  the  very  point  at 
last 
Wliere  life  should  cling  :  to  feel  the 
solid  shore 
Safe  ;    where,  the  seething  sea's 
strong  toil  o'erpast. 
Peace  seemed  appointed  ;  then,  with 
all  the  store 
Half-undivulged    of   the  gleaned 
ocean  cast. 
Like  a  discouraged  wave's  on  the 
bleak  strand, 
Where  what  appeared  some  temple 
(whose  glad  Priest 
To    gather    ocean's    sparkling    gift 
should  stand. 
Bidding  the  wearied  wave,  from 
toil  releast. 
Sleep  in  the  marble  harbors  bathed 
with  bland 
And  quiet  sunshine,  flowing  from 
full  east 


470 


MINOR  POEMS. 


Among  the  laurels)  proves  tlie  dull 
blind  rock's 
Fantastic  front, — to  die,  a  disal- 
lowed, 
Daslit  purpose  :  which  the  scornful 
sliore-clifE  mocks, 
Even    as    it    sinks  ;    and    all    its 
wealth  bestowed 
In  vain, — mere  food  to  feed,   per- 
chance, stray  flocks 
Of  the  coarse  sea-gull  !  weaving  its 
own  shroud 
Of  idle  foam,  swift  ceasing  to  be 
seen  ! 
— Sad,  sad,  my  father  !  .  .  .  yet  it 
comes  to  this. 
For  I  am    dying.     All  that  might 
have  been — 
That  must  have  been  !  .  .  .  the 
days,  so  hard  to  miss. 
So  sure  to  come  !  .  .  .   eyes,   lips, 
that  seemed  to  lean 
In  on  me  at  my  work,  and  almost 
kiss 
The  curls  bowed  o'er  it,  .  .  .  lost  I 
O,  never  doubt 
1  should  have  lived  to  know  them 
all  again. 
And  from    the    crowd    of   praisers 
single  out 
For  special  love  those  forms  be- 
held so  plain 
Beforehand.      When    my    pictures, 
borne  about 
Bologna,  to  the  church  doors,  led 
their  train  [go, 

Of  kindling  faces,  turned,  as  by  they 
Up  to  these  windows, — standing  at 
your  side 
Unseen,  to  see  them,  I  (be  sure  !) 
should  know 
And  welcome  back  those  eyes  and 
lips,  descried 
Long  since  in  fancy  :  for  I  loved 
them  so, 
And  so  believed  them  !    Think  ! 
.  .  .  Bologna's  pride 
My  paintings  !  .    .   .  Guido  Reni's 
mantle  mine  .  .  . 
And  I,  the  maiden  artist,  prized 
among 


The  masters,  ...  ah,  that  dream 
was  too  divine 
For  earth  to  realize  !     I  die  so 
young. 
All  this  escapes  me  !    God,  the  gift 
be  Thine, 
Not  man's  then  .  .  .  better  so  ! 
That  throbbing  throng 
Of  human  faces  fades  out  fast.    Even 
yours, 
Beloved  ones,  the  inexorable  Fate 
(For  all  our  vowed  affections !)  scarce 
endures 
About  me.     Must  I  go,  then,  deso- 
late 
Out  from  among  yon  ?     Nay,  my 
work  insures 
Fit  guerdon  somewhere, — though 
the  gift  must  wait  ! 
Had  I  lived  longer,  life  would  sure 
have  set 
Earth'sgift  of  fame  in  safety.   But 
Idle. 
Death  must  make  safe  the  heavenly 
guerdon  yet. 
I  trusted  time  for  immortality, — 
There  was  my  error  !    Father,  never 
let 
Doubt    of    reward    confuse    my 
memory  ! 
Besides, — I  have  done  much :   and 
what  is  done 
Is  well  done.     All  my  heart  con- 
ceived, my  hand 
Made  fast  .  .  .  mild  martyr,  saint, . 
and  weeping  nun. 
And  truncheoned  prince,  and  war- 
rior with  bold  brand. 
Yet  keep  my  life  upon  them  ; — as 
the  sun. 
Though  fallen  below  the  limits  of 
the  land. 
Still  sees  on  every  form  of  purple 
cloud 
His  painted  presence. 

Flaring  August's  here, 
September's     coming  !      Summer's 
broidered  shroud 
Is  borne  away  in  triumph  by  the 
year : 


MINOR  POEMS, 


471 


Red   Autumn    drops,   from    all  bis 
brandies  bowed, 
His  careless  wealtti  upon  the  costly 
bier. 
We  must  be  cheerful.     Set  the  case- 
ment wide. 
One  last  look  o'er  the  places  I  have 
loved, 
One  last  long  look  !  .  .  .  Bologna,  O 
my  pride 
Among  thy  palaced  streets  !    The 
days  have  moved 
Pleasantly  o'er  us.      What  has  been 
denied 
To  our  endeavor  ?      Life  goes  un- 
reproved. 
To  make  the  best  of  all  things,  is  the 
best 
Of  all  means  to  be  happy.     This  I 
know, 
But   cainiot  phrase  it  finely.     The 
night's  rest 
The  day's  toil  sweetens.     Flowers 
are  warmed  by  snow. 
All's  well  God  wills.     Work  out  this 
grief.     Joy's  zest 
Itself  is  salted  with  a  touch  of 
woe. 
There's  nothing  comes  to  us  may 
not  be  borne, 
Except  a  too  great  happiness.    But 
this 
Comes  rarely.     Though  I  know  that 
you  will  mourn 
The  little  maiden  helpmate  you 
must  miss, 
Thanks  be  to  God,  I  leave  you  not 
forlorn. 
There  should  be  comfort  in  this 
dying  kiss. 
Let  Barbara  keep  my  colors  for  her- 
self. 
I'm  sorry  that  Lucia  went  away 
In     some     unkindness.       'Twas    a 
cheerful  elf  ! 
Send    her     my    scarlet    ribands, 
mother  ;  say 
I  thought  of  her.     My  palette's  on 
the  shelf, 
Surprised,  no  doubt,  at  such  long 
holiday. 


In  the  south  window,  on  the  easel, 

stands 
My  picture  for  the  Empress  Elea- 
nore, 
Still  wanting  some  few  touches,  these 
weak  hands 
Must  leave  to  others.     Yet  there's 
time  before 
The  year  ends.     And  the  Empress' 
own  commands 
You'll  find  in  wi-iting.     Barbara's 
brush  is  more 
Like  mine  than   Anna's  ;    let    her 
finish  it. 
O,  .  .  .  and  there's    *  Maso,   our 
poor  fisherman  ! 
You'll  find  my  work  done  for  him  : 
something  fit 
To    hang    among  his  nets  ;    you 
liked  the  plan 
My  fancy  took  to  please  our  friend's 
dull  wit, 
Scarce   brighter  than  his  old  tin 
fishing-can.  .  .  . 
St.  Margaret,  stately  as  a  ship  full 
sail, 
Leading   a    dragon  by   an  azure 
band  ; 
The  ribbon  flutters  gayly  in  the  gale ; 
The  monster  follows  the  Saint's 
guiding  hand. 
Wrinkled  to  one  grim  smile  from 
head  to  tail  ; 
For  in  his  horny  hide  his  heart 
grows  bland. 
— Where  are  you,  dear  ones  ?  .  .  . 

'Tis  the  dull,  faint  chill. 
Which  soon  will  shrivel  into  burn- 
ing pain  ! 
Dear  brother,  sisters,  father,  mother, 
—still 
Stand  near  me !    While  your  faces 
fixt  remain 
Within  my  sense,  vague  fears  of  \m- 
known  ill 
Are  softly  crowded  out,  ,  .  .  and 
yet,  'tis  vain  ! 
Greet  Giulio  Banzi  ;  greet  Antonio  ; 
greet  [gone, 

Bartolomeo,    kindly.    When  I'm 


472 


MINOR  POEMS. 


And  in  the  scliool-room,  as  of  old, 
you  meet, 
— Ah,   yes!  you'll  miss  a  certain 
merry  tone, 
A  cheerful  face,  a  smile  that  should 
complete 
The  vague  place  in  the  household 
picture  grown 
To  an  aspect  so  familiar,  it  seems 
strange 
That    aught    should  alter    there.  I 
Mere  life,  at  least, 
Could  not  have  brought  the  shadow 
of  a  change 
Across  it.     Safely  the  warm  years 
increast 
Among  us.      I  have  never  sought  to 
range 
From  our  small  table  at  earth's 
general  feast. 
To  higher  places:   never  loved  but 
you, 
Dear  family  of  friends,  except  my 
art  : 
Nor  any  form  save  those  my  pencil 
drew 
E'er  quivered  in  the  quiet  of  my 
heart. 
I  die  a  maiden  to  Madonna  true. 
And  would  have  so  continued.  .  .  . 
There,  the  smart. 
The  pang,  the  faintness  !  .  .  . 

Ever,  as  I  lie 
Here,  with  the  Autumn  sunset  on 
my  face. 
And  heavy  in  my  curls  (whilst  it, 
and  I, 
Together,  slipping  softly  from  the 
place 
We  played  in,  pensively  prepare  to 
die), 
A  low  warm  humming  simmers  in 
»y  eai's, 


— Old    Summer  afternoons  I    faint 
fragments  rise 
Out  of  my    broken    life    ...  at 
times  appears  [skies  : 

Madonna-like    a    moon   in    mellow 
The  three  Fates  with  the  spindle 
and  the  shears : 
The  Grand  Duke  Cosmo  with  the 
Destinies  : 
St.  Margaret  with  her  dragon  :  fit- 
ful cheers 
Along  the  Via  Urbana  come  and  go : 
Bologna    with    her    towers  !  .  .  . 
Then  all  grows  dim. 
And  shapes  itself  anew,  softly  and 
slow, 
To      cloistered    glooms    through 
which  the  silver  hymn 
Eludes  tlie  sensitive  silence  ;   whilst 
below 
The  southwest  window,  just  one 
single,  slim. 
And  sleepy  sunbeam,  powders  with 
waved  gold 
A  lane  of  gleamy  mist  along  the 
gloom, 
Whereby  to  find  its  way,   through 
manifold  [tomb, 

Magnificence,     to    Guido    Reni's 
Which,  set  in  steadfast  splendor,  I 
behold. 
And  all  the  while,  I  scent  the  in- 
cense fume, 
Till  dizzy  grows  the  brain,  and  dark 
the  eye 
Beneath  the    eyelid.      When  the 
end  is  come. 
There,  by  his  tomb  (our  master's)  let 
me  lie. 
Somewhere,   not  too  far  off ;  be- 
neath the  dome 
Of  our  own  Lady  of  the  Rosary  ; 
Safe,  where  old  friends  will  pass  ; 
and  still  near  home  I 


LAST  WORDS.  473 


LAST   WORDS. 

Will,  are  you  sitting  and  watching  there  yet  ?    And  I  know,  by  a  certain 

skill 
That  grows  out  of  utter  wakefulness,  the  night  must  be  far  spent,  Will : 
For,  lying  awake  so  many  a  night,  I  have  learned  at  last  to  catch 
From  the  crowing  cock,  and  the  clanging  clock,  and  the  sound  of  the 

beating  watch, 
A  misty  sense  of  the  measureless  march  of  Time,  as  he  passes  here. 
Leaving  my  life  behind  him  ;  and  I  know  that  the  dawn  is  near. 
But  you  have  been  watching  three  nights.  Will,  and  you  look  so  wan  to- 
night, 
I  thought,  as  I  saw  you  sitting  there,  in  the  sad  monotonous  light 
Of  the  moody  night-lamp  near  you,  that  I  could  not  choose  but  close 
My  lids  as  fast,  and  lie  as  still,  as  though  I  lay  in  a  doze  : 
For,  I  thought,  "He  will  deem  I  am  dreaming,  and  then  he  may  steal 

away. 
And  sleep  a  little  :  and  this  will  be  well."     And  truly,  I  dreamed,  as  I  lay 
Wide  awake,  but  all  as  quiet,  as  though,  the  last  office  done, 
They  had  streaked  me  out  for  the  grave,  Will,  to  which  they  will  bear  me 

anon. 
Dreamed  ;  for  old  things  and  places  came  dancing  about  my  brain. 
Like  ghosts  that  dance  in  an  empty  house;  and  my  thoughts  went  slipping 

again 
By  green  back-ways  forgotten  to  a  stiller  circle  of  time, 
Where  violets,  faded  forever,  seemed  blowing  as  once  in  their  prime  : 
And  I  fancied  that  you  and  I,  Will,  were  boys  again  as  of  old, 
At  dawn  on  the  hill-top  together,  at  eve  in  the  field  by  the  fold  ; 
Till  the  thought  of  this  was  growing  too  wildly  sweet  to  be  borne, 
And  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  turned  me  round,  and  there,  in  the  light  for- 
lorn, 
I  find  you  sitting  beside  me.     But  the  dawn  is  at  hand,  I  know. 
Sleep  a  little.     I  shall  not  die  to-night.     You  may  leave  me.     Go. 
Eh  !  is  it  time  for  the  drink  ?  must  you  mix  it  ?  it  does  me  no  good. 
But  thanks,  old  friend,  true  friend  !  I  would  live  for  your  sake,  if  I  could. 
Ay,  there  are  some  good  things  in  life,  that  fall  not  away  with  the  rest. 
And,  of  all  best  things  upon  earth,  I  hold  that  a  faithful  friend  is  the 

best. 
For  woman.  Will,  is  a  thorny  flower  :  it  breaks,  and  we  bleed  and  smart : 
The  blossom  falls  at  the  fairest,  and  the  thorn  rmis  into  the  heart. 
And  woman's  love  is  a  bitter  fruit  ;  and,  however  he  bite  it,  or  sip. 
There's  many  a  man  has  lived  to  curse  the  taste  of  that  fruit  on  his  lip. 
But  never  was  any  man  yet,  as  I  ween,  be  he  whosoever  he  may. 
That  has  known  what  a  true  friend  is.  Will,  and  wished  that  knowledge 

away. 
You  were  proud  of  my  promise,  faithful  despite  of  my  fall. 
Sad  when  the  world  seemed  over  sweet,  sweet  when  the  world  turned 

gall: 
When  I  cloaked  myself  in  the  pride  of  praise  from  what  God  grieved  to  see, 


474  i^AST  WORDS. 


You  saw  through  the  glittering  He  of  it  all,  and  silently  mourned  for  me: 
When  the  world  took  back  what  the  world  had  given,  -"id  scorn  with 

praise  changed  place, 
I,  from  my  sackcloth  and  ashes,  looked  up,  and  saw  hope  glow  on  your 

face  : 
Therefore,  fair  weather  be  yours,  Will,  whether  it  shines  or  pours. 
And,  if  1  can  slip  from  out  of  my  -grave,  my  spirit  will  visit  yours. 

O  woman  eyes  that  have  smiled  and  smiled,  O  woman  lips  that  have  kist 
The  life-blood  out  of  my  heart,  why  thus  forever  do  you  persist. 
Pressing  out  of  the  dark  all  round,  to  bewilder  my  dying  hours 
With  your  ghostly  sorceries   brewed  from  the  breath  of   your  poison- 
flowers  ? 
Still,  though  the  idol  be  broken,  I  see  at  their  ancient  revels, 
The  riven  altar  around,  come  dancing  the  self-same  devils. 
Jjenie  cwTite,  lente  currite,  noctis  equi ! 
Linger  a  little,  O  Time,  and  let  me  be  saved  ere  1  die. 
How  many  a  night  'neath  her  window  have  I  walked  in  the  wind  and 

rain, 
Only  to  look  at  her  shadow  fleet  over  the  lighted  pane. 
Alas  !  'twas  the  shadow  that  rested,  'twas  herself  that  fleeted,  you  see, 
And  now  I  am  dying,  I  know  it  : — dying,  and  where  is  she  ! 
Dancing  divinely,  perchance,  or,  over  her  soft  harp  strings. 
Using  the  past  to  give  pathos  to  the  little  new  song  that  she  sings. 
Bitter  ?  I  dare  not  be  bitter  in  the  few  last  hours  left  to  live. 
Keeding  so  much  forgiveness,  God  grant  me  at  least  to  forgive. 
There  can  be  no  space  for  the  ghost  of  her  face  down  in  the  narrow 

room. 
And  the  mole  is  blind,  and  the  worm  is  mute,  and  there  must  be  rest  in 

the  tomb. 
And  just  one  failure  more  or  less  to  a  life  that  seems  to  be 
(Whilst  I  lie  looking  upon  it,  as  a  bird  on  the  broken  tree 
She  hovers  about,  ere  making  wing  for  a  land  of  lovelier  growth. 
Brighter  blossom,  and  purer  air,  somewhere  far  off  in  the  south,) 
Failure,  crowning  failure,  failure  from  end  to  end, 
Just  one  more  or  less,  what  matter,  to  the  many  no  grief  can  mend  ? 
Not  to  know  vice  is  virtue,  not  fate,  however  men  rave  : 
And,  next  to  this  I  hold  that  man  to  be  but  a  coward  and  slave 
Who  bears  the  plague-spot  about  him,  and,  knowing  it,  shrinks  or  fears 
To  brand  it  out,  though  the  burning  knife  should  hiss  in  his  heart's  hot 

tears. 
But  I  have  caught  the  contagion  of  a  world  that  I  never  loved. 
Pleased  myself  with  approval  of  those  that  I  never  approved. 
Paltered  with  pleasm'es  that  pleased  not,  and  fame  where  no  fame  could 

be. 
And  hoAv  shall  I  look,  do  you  think.  Will,  when  the  angels  are  looking 

on  me  ? 
Yet  oh  !  the  confident  spirit  once  mine,  to  dare  and  to  do  ! 
Take  the  world  into  my  hand,  and  shape  it,  and  make  it  anew  ; 
Gather  all  men  in  my  purpose,  men  in  tlieir  darkness  and  dearth, 
Men  in  their  meanness  and  misery,  made  of  the  dust  of  the  earth, 


LAST  WORDS.  475 


Mould  them  afresh,  and  make  out  of  them  Man,  with  his  spirit  sublime, 

Man,  the  great  heir  of  Eternity,  dragging  the  conquests  of  Time  ! 

Therefore  I  mingled  among  them,  deeming  the  poet  should  hold 

All  natures  saved  in  his  own,  as  the  world  in  the  ark  was  of  old  ; 

All  natures  saved  in  his  own  to  be  types  of  a  nobler  race, 

When  the  old  world  passeth  away,  and  the  new  world  taketh  his  place. 

Triple  fool  in  my  folly  !  purblind  and  impotent  worm, 

Thinking  to  move  the  world,  who  could  not  myself  stand  firm  ! 

Cheat  of  a  worn-out  trick,  as  one  that  on  shipboard  roves 

Wherever  the  wind  may  blow,  still  deeming  the  continent  moves  ! 

Blowing  the  frothy  bubble  of  life's  brittle  purpose  away  ; 

Child,  ever  chasing  the  morrow,  who  now  cannot  ransom  a  day  : 

Still  I  called  Fame  to  lead  onward,  forgetting  she  follows  behind 

Those  who  know  whither  they  walk  through  the  praise  or  dispraise  ol 

manJiind. 
All  my  life  (looking  back  on  it)  shows  like  the  broken  stair 
That  winds  round  a  ruined  tower,  and  never  will  lead  anywhere. 
Friend,  lay  your  hand  in  my  own,  and  swear  to  me,  when  you  have  seen 
My  body  borne  out  from  the  door,  ere  the  grass  on  my  grave  shall  be 

green, 
You  will  burn  every  book  I  have  written.     And  so  perish,  one  and  all, 
Each  trace  of  the  struggle  that  failed  with  the  life  that  I  cannot  recall. 
Dust  and  ashes,  earth's  dross,  which  the  mattock  may  give  to  the  mole  ! 
Something,  though  stained  and  defaced,  survives,  as  I  trust,  with  the 

soul. 

Something  ?  .  .  .  Ay,  something  comes  back  to  me  .  .  .  Think  !  that  I 
might  have  been  .  .  .  what  ? 

Almost,  I  fancy  at  times,  what  I  meant  to  have  been,  and  am  not. 

Where  was  the' fault  ?  Was  it  strength  fell  short  ?  And  yet  (I  can  speak 
of  it  now  !) 

How  my  spirit  sung  like  the  resonant  nerve  of  a  warrior's  battle-bow 

When  the  shaft  has  leapt  from  the  string,  what  time,  her  first  bright  ban- 
ner unfurled. 

Song  aimed  her  arrowy  purpose  in  me  sharp  at  the  heart  of  the  world. 

Was  it  the  hand  that  faltered,  unskilled  ?  or  was  it  the  eye  that  deceived  ? 

However  I  reason  it  out,  there  remains  a  failure  time  has  not  retrieved. 

I  said  I  would  live  in  all  lives  that  beat,  and  love  in  all  loves  that  be  : 

I  would  crown  me  lord  of  all  passions  ;  and  the  passions  were  lords  of 
me. 

I  would  compass  every  circle,  I  would  enter  at  every  door, 

In  the  starry  spiral  of  science,  and  the  labyrinth  of  lore, 

Only  to  follow  the  flying  foot  of  love  to  his  last  retreat. 

Fool  !  that  with  man's  all-imperfect  would  circumscribe  God's  all-com- 
plete ! 

Arrogant  error  !  whereby  I  starved  like  the  fool  in  the  fable  of  old, 

Whom  the  gods  destroyed  by  the  gift  he  craved,  turning  all  things  to  gold. 

Be  wise  :  know  what  to  leave  unknown.    The  flowers  bloom  on  the  brink, 

But  black  death  lurks  at  the  bottom.     Help  men  to  enjoy,  not  to  think, 

O  poet  to  whom  I  give  place  !  cull  the  latest  effect,  leave  the  cause. 

Few  that  dive  for  the  pearl  of  the  deep  but  are  crushed  in  the  kraken's  jaws. 


47 ^  LAST  WORDS. 


While  the  harp  of  Arion  is  heard  at  eve  over  the  gliinincring  ocean  : 

He  floats  in  the  foam,  on  the  dauphin's  back,  ghding  with  gentle  motion, 

Over  the  rolling  water,  under  the  light  of  the  beaming  star, 

And  the  nymphs,  half  asleep  on  the  surface,  sail  moving  his  musical  car. 

A  little  knowledge  will  turn  youth  gray.     And  I  stood,  chill  in  the  sun, 

Naming  you  each  of  the  roses  ;  blest  by  the"  beauty  of  none. 

My  song  had  an  after-savor  of  the  salt  of  many  tears. 

Or  it  burned  with  a  bitter  foretaste  of  the  end  as  it  now  appears  : 

And  the  world  that  had  paused  to  listen  awhile,  because  the  first  notes 

were  gay. 
Passed  on  its  way  with  a  sneer  and  a  smile :  *'  Has  he  nothing  fresher  to  say  1 
This  poet's  mind  was  a  weedy  flower  that  presently  comes  to  naught  !" 
For  the  world  was  not  so  sad  but  what  my  song  was  sadder,  it  thought. 
Comfort  me  not.     For  if  aught  be  worse  than  failure  from  over-stress 
Of  a  life's  prime  purpose,  it  is  to  sit  down  content  with  a  little  success. 
Talk  not  of  genius  baffled.     Genius  is  master  of  man. 
Genius  does  what  it  must,  and  talent  does  what  it  can. 
Blot  out  my  name,  that  the  spirits  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton  and  Burns 
Look  not  down  on  the  praises  of  fools  with  a  pity  my  soul  yet  spurns. 
And  yet,  had  I  only  the  trick  of  an  aptitude  shrewd  of  its  kind, 
I  should  have  lived  longer,  I  think,  more  merry  of  heart  and  of  mind. 
Surely  I  knew  (who  better  ?)  the  innermost  secret  of  each 
Bird,  and  beast,  and  flower.     Failed  I  to  give  to  them  speech  ? 
All  the  pale  spirits  of  storm,  that  sail  down  streams  of  the  wind, 
Cleaving  the  thunder-cloud,  with  wild  hair  blowing  behind  ; 
All  the  soft  seraphs  that  float  in  the  light  of  the  crimson  eve. 
When  Hesper  begins  to  glitter,  and  the  heavy  woodland  to  heave  : 
All  the  white  nymphs  of  the  water  that  dwell  'mid  the  lilies  alone  : 
And  the  buskined  maids  for  the  love  of  whom  the  hoary  oak-trees  groan  ; 
They  came  to  my  call  in  the  forest  ;  they  crept  to  my  feet  from  the  river  : 
They  softly  looked  out  of  the  sky  when  I  sung,  and  their  wings  beat  with 

breathless  endeavor 
The  blocks  of  the  broken  thunder  piling  their  stormy  lattices, 
Over  the  moaning  mountain  walls,  and  over  the  sobbing  seas. 
So  many  more  reproachful  faces  around  my  bed  ! 

Voices  moaning  about  me  :  "  Ah  !  couldst  thou  not  heed  what  we  said  ?  " 
Peace  to  the  past  !  it  skills  not  now  :  these  thoughts  that  vex  it  in  vain 
Are  but  the  dust  of  a  broken  purpose  blown  about  the  brain 
Which  presently  will  be  tenantless,  when  the  wanton  worms  carouse, 
And  the  mole  builds  over  my  bones  his  little  windowless  house. 
It  is  growing  darker  and  stranger.  Will,  and  colder, — dark  and  cold, 
Dark  and  cold  !    Is  the  lamp  gone  out  ?    Give  me  thy  hand  to  hold. 
No  :  'tis  life's  brief  candle  burning  down.     Tears  ?  tears.  Will  I    Why, 
This  which  we  call  dying  is  only  ceasing  to  die. 
It  is  but  the  giving  over  a  game  all  lose.     Fear  life,  not  death. 
The  hard  thing  was  to  live,  Will.     To  whatever  bourn  this  breath 
Is  going,  the  way  is  easy  now.     With  flowers  and  music,  life. 
Like  a  pagan  sacrifice,  leads  us  along  to  this  dark  High  Priest  with  the 

knife 
I  have  been  too  peevish  at  mere  mischance.     For  whether  we  build  it, 

friend, 


I 


LAST  WORDS, 


^S^ 


Of  brick  or  jasper,  life's  large  base  dwindles'iatotbis  point  ajtt  , 
A  kind  of  nothing  !    Who  knows  whether  'tis  fittest  to  weep'or  la« 
At  those  thin  curtains  the  spider  spins  o'er  each  dusty  epitaph  ? 
I  talk  wildly.     But  this  I  know,  that  not  even  the  best  and  first, 
When  all  is  done,  can  claim  by  desert  what  even  to  the  last  and  worst 
Of  us  weak  workmen,  God  from  the  depth  of  his  infinite  mercy  giveth. 
These  bones  shall  rest  in  peace,  for  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth. 
Doubtful  images  come  and  go  ;  and  I  seem  to  be  passing  them  by. 
Bubbles  these  be  of  the  mind,  w^hich  show  that  the  stream  is  hurrying  nigh 
To  the  home  of  waters.     Already  I  feel,  in  a  sort  of  still  sweet  awe, 
The  great  main  current  of  all  that  I  am  beginning  to  draw  and  draw 
Into  perfect  peace.     I  attain  at  last  I  life's  a  long,  long  reaching  out 
Of  the  soul  to  something  beyond  her.     Now  comes  the  end  of  all  doubt. 
The  vanishing  point  in  the  picture  !    I  have  uttered  weak  words  to-night, 
And  foolish.     A  thousand  failures,  what  are  these  in  the  sight 
Of  the  One  All-Perfect  who,  w-hether  man  fails  in  his  work,  or  succeeds, 
Builds  surely,  solemnly  up  from  our  broken  days  and  deeds 
The  infinite  purpose  of  time.     We  are  but  day-laborers  all, 
Early  or  late,  or  first  or  last  at  the  gate  in  the  vineyard  wall. 
Lord  !  if,  in  love,  though  fainting  oft,  I  have  tended  thy  gracious  Vine, 
O,  quench  the  thirst  on  these  dying  lips.  Thou,  who  pourest  the  wine  ! 
Hush  !    I  am  in  the  w^ay  to  study  a  long,  long  silence  now. 
I  know  at  last  what  I  cannot  tell :  I  see  what  I  may  not  show. 
Pray  awhile  for  my  soul.     Then  sleep.     There  is  nothing  in  this  to  fear. 
1  shall  sleep  into  death.     Night  sleeps.     The  hoarse  wolf  howls  not  near, 
Xo  dull  owl  beats  the  casement,  and  no  rough  bearded  star 
Stares  on  my  mild  departure  from  yon  dark  window  bar. 
Nature  takes  no  notice  of  those  that  are  coming  or  going. 
To-morrow  make  ready  my  grave,  Will.     To-morrow  new  flowers  will  be 
blowins. 


INDEX. 


[The  titles  in  capital  letters  are  those  of  the  principal  divisions  of  the  work ; 
in  lower-case  are  single  poems,  or  the  subdivisions  of  long  poems.] 


those 


Adieu,  Mignonne,  ma  Belle 234 

Aden 461 

A  I'Entresol 213 

Aloe,  The 238 

Appearances 453 

APPLE  OF  LIFE,  THE 162 

Aristocracy 462 

Artist,  The 421 

Associations 440 

Astarte 222 

At  her  Casement 442 

At  Home  after  the  Ball 225 

At  Home  during  the  Ball 224 

Au  Cafe  *  *  * 226 

Autumn 255 

Auxltaliens 218 

Babylonia 248 

Bird  at  Sunset,  A 462 

Bluebeard 268 

Canticle  of  Love,  The 265 

"  Carpe  Diem  " 241 

Castle  of  King  Macbeth,  The 269 

Chain  to  wear,  A 205 

Change 204 

Changes; 463 

Chess-Board,  The 231 

Cloud,  The 191 

CL YTE3INESTRA 348 

Compensation 236 

Condemned  Ones 200 

Contraband 460 

Cordelia 281 

Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 207 

Death-in-Life 270 

Death  of  King  Hacon,  The 240 

Desire 186 

Dream,  A 279 

Earl's  Return,  The 403 

Elayne  Le  Blanc 447 

Elisabetta  Sirani 469 

Epilogue. 

Part     I 299 

Part    II 302 

Fartm 306 


Eros 189 

Euthanasia , 289 

Evening - 461 

Evening  in  Tuscany,  An. 443 

Fancy,  A <  193 

Failure... =  286 

Farewell,  A 443 

Fatality 187 

Fatima 269 

Forbearance •  • 469 

Fount  of  Truth,  The 242 

Fugitive,  The 271 

Ghost  Story,  A •  ■  •  267 

Going  back  again 269 

Good-Night  in  the  Porch 397 

Heart  and  Nature,  The 251 

Helios  Hyperionides 469 

How  the  Song  was  made 454 

In  Travel 463 

Indian  Love-Song -  190 

Jacqueline 256 

Judicium  Paridis 464 

King  Hermandiaz 459 

King  Limos 270 

KingSolomon 279 

Last  Message,  The 209 

Last  Remonstrance,  The 232 

Last  Time  that  1  met  Lady  Ruth,  The.  245 

Last  Words  473 

Leoline  457 

Leafless  Hours 255 

Letter  to  Cordelia,  A 285 

Love-Letter,  A 197 

LUCILE 7 

Madame  la  Marquise 216 

Magic  Land,  The 185 

Macroniicros •  •  259 

Matrimonial  Counsels 246 

"  Medio  de  Fonte  Leporum  " 240 

Meeting  again 441 

Mermaideu,  The  442 

(473; 


48o 


INDEX. 


Metempsychosis 267 

Midges 243 

MINOR  POEMS 434 

Misanthropes.. 287 

Morning  and  Meeting  190 

Mystery 260 

Nseniae 353 

Neglected  Heart,  The 453 

News.. 207 

Night 468 

Night  in  the  Fisherman's  Hut,  A 

Part     I.    The  Fisherman's  Daugh- 
ter   273 

Part   II.    The  Legend  of  Lord  Ro- 

sencrantz 275 

Part  III.    Davbreak 277 

Part  IV.    Breakfast 278 

Novel,  The  .  217 

North  Sea,  The 272 

On  my  Twenty-fourth  Year 255 

On  the  Sea 210 

Once 194 

Parting  of  Launcelot  and  Guenevere, 

The 434 

Pedler,  The 265 

Portrait,  The 221 

Prayer,  A 288 

*'  Prensus  in  ^gseo 212 

Progress 220 

Prophet,  The 461 

Psalm  of  Confession,  A 294 

Queen  Guenevere 452 

Quiet  Moment,  A 252 

Remembrance,  A 215 

Requiescat 299 

Retrospections 454 

Root  and  Leaf 192 

Ruined  Palace,  The 456 

Seaside  Songs.    1 445 

n 446 

See-Saw 247 

Shore,  The 271 

Silence 206 

Since 195 

Small  People 267 

Song 232 

Song 445 

Song 459 


Song ^ 468 

Sorcery 234 

Soul's  Loss,  A 418 

Soul's  Science,  The 294 

Spring  and  Winter 458 

Storm,  The 201 

Summer-Time  that  was.  The 446 

Sunset  Fancy,  A 440 

Swallow,  The 446 

TANNHAUSER 312 

Terra  Incognita 214 

To 452 

To  Cordelia 283 

To  Mignonne 235 

To  the  Queen  of  Serpents 268 

TRANSLATIONS    FROM    PETER 
RONSARD. 
"  Voici  le  Bois  que  ma  Saincte  An- 

gelette  " 237 

"  Cache  cour  cette  Nuict " 237 

"PagesuyMoy" 237 

"Les  Espices  sont  a  Ceres" 238 

"  Ma  Douce  Jouvence  " 238 

Vampire,  The 203 

Venice 209 

Vision,  A 188 

Vision  of  Virgins,  A 455 

Voice  across  my  Spirit  falls,  Thy 454 

WANDERER,  THE 

Dedication.    To  J.  F 172 

Prologue 

Part     1 174 

Part    II 179 

Part  III 181 

Book      I.    In  Italy 185 

Book    II.    In  France 212 

Book  III.     In  England 238 

Book  IV.    In  Switzerland 251 

Book    V.     In  Holland 255 

Book  VI.    Palingenesis 288 

Epilogue. 

Part     1 299 

Part   II 302 

Part  III 306 

Want 462 

Warnings 192 

Wealth 462 

Wife's  Tragedy,  The. 424 

'*  Ye  seek  Jesus  of  Nazareth  which 
was  crucified." 282 


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